


The Middle Child

by Teddy (I_am_lampy)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-07 09:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/Teddy
Summary: The Holmes family invites John to spend Christmas with them.On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...Five new Holmeses.Four frustrating days.Three sisters play Cupid.Two boys in denial.And a Johnlock Christmas Day!





	1. Friday, 4 Days Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft invites John to spend Christmas 2018 with the Holmeses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting a chapter every morning for the next five days, which means the final chapter will be posted on Christmas Day.
> 
> Although this story takes place Christmas 2018, the characters in this story are the same as they were in Season 1 of the show. So, Sherlock is 33, John is 38, and Mycroft is 40.

* * *

John stands at the foot of the stairs up to 221B, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with dread. The flat above is silent—there's no sound of the violin (beautiful or peevish), nor the sound of Sherlock mumbling to himself as he peers through the microscope or as he paces back and forth in the sitting room. His coat is hanging on the peg right next to where John just left his.

It's not that Sherlock is always in motion. After all, he could be sleeping or stretched out on the sofa, deep in his Mind Palace. But John can't help being worried. He's known Sherlock less than a year but hasn't stopped fretting over him since the day the idiot followed Jefferson Hope down the stairs and into a cab right under the nose of a group of Metropolitan police officers. In fact, Fretting Over Sherlock is a full-time job for John which explains his default state of exasperated fondness marked with occasional and brief bouts of rage. And constant exhaustion.

John silently reassures himself it's okay that the Browning is upstairs in his bedroom where it won't do him any good if there's someone in the flat who he needs to shoot. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he steals upstairs to the kitchen entrance and peeks around the open door.

"Good afternoon, John," Mycroft Holmes says from John's own chair, never once turning his head towards the kitchen.

"How did you—" John starts to ask and then shakes his head. "Never mind." He pokes his head in further to get a glimpse of Sherlock who's glaring at his older brother while slouching down in the chair with an air of boredom. John rolls his eyes. These two, he knows, love to fight with each other, no matter how bored they pretend to be.

John gives a half-hearted greeting to Mycroft then turns to go up to his room, knowing better than to be drawn into one of the Holmes' brothers' maddeningly silent contests of will.

Mycroft stops him by saying, "I'm actually here to see you, John. Please join us," and finally turns to look at John.

John's mouth opens to say something like _No vacant warehouses today?_ but he snaps it closed when he sees the possibly-sincere smile on Mycroft's face.

"Uh," is what John says instead, hovering on the threshold. He tries to catch Sherlock's eye, but Sherlock is too busy glaring at his brother, his upper lip curled in a sneer. "Okay," agrees John finally, creeping into the sitting room, keeping a careful eye on both brothers. He sits on the edge of the couch, puts his elbows on his knees and leans forward. "So, what's up?"

Mycroft keeps his eyes on John as he says, "My family would like to extend an invitation to spend Christmas—"

"What!" squawks Sherlock, jumping from his chair.

Without pausing for breath, Mycroft continues. "—to spend Christmas with us at our family home. I know it's short notice, but may I send a car for you tomorrow morning?"

John laughs and when Mycroft frowns at him, clearly offended, John looks to Sherlock for guidance. Sherlock's face has gone ashen and his eyes are wide with horror. John's heart rate kicks up a notch and his laughter cuts out. He looks back at Mycroft who's pointedly ignoring Sherlock and waiting with an arched eyebrow for John's answer.

"It's not a joke?" John asks with a half grin.

"Of course it's not a _joke_ ," Mycroft retorts while at the same time Sherlock says, "You must be _joking_!" and then the two of them face off again.

John sighs with feeling then, shrugging, jumps into the fray. "Didn't think you had a family. I always imagined the two of you hatched from eggs. Like snakes."

Mycroft stands and turns towards John. "The invitation to spend Christmas with our family is genuine. If you accept, I'll send a car to pick you up tomorrow morning at nine."

"How long will we be staying?"

_"We?"_ Sherlock snaps. " _We_ are not going anywhere."

"Why not?" John asks.

"He thinks we'll humiliate him in front of you," Mycroft says and lifts his eyebrows with that _God give me patience_ look he uses all the time around Sherlock.

Sherlock points an accusing finger at Mycroft and says, "I thought you'd given up trying to drive John away from me, but you still insist on playing this childish game. If you haven't frightened him off by now, I hardly think it can be done."

For a moment, Mycroft's shoulders slump with real defeat, but he gathers himself and turns to Sherlock. "How on earth do you propose that I should be able to twist an invitation to spend Christmas with our _family_ into a plot to drive John away? Are you suggesting our family is somehow _offensive_?"

Sherlock sneers smugly. "John will allow himself to get excited, and pack, and at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, there'll be no car arriving and he'll feel a fool."

"Really, Sherlock?" Mycroft says, clearly not expecting an answer. He rubs his fingertips across his brow in a gesture John himself often makes when exasperated with Sherlock.

"If there was an invitation, Mother would have called me."

"She _did_ call you, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowns and yanks his phone out of his pocket, giving them his back and bending over it. He taps out a text and then waits, glaring at his phone. Not five seconds go by before he does it again.

"She won't notice you've texted until hours from now, Sherlock. If you don't believe me, call her. Or call Sherrinford—she's at home for the holiday break."

"Who's Sherrinford?" John asks, his curiosity set on fire.

"Our sister," Sherlock mumbles.

John rises to his feet, feeling something like awe. "You guys have a _sister_?"

"Three of them, actually," Mycroft says.

John's mouth drops open and this time he doesn't bother to close it. He stares at Mycroft who shrugs apologetically and then he turns to glare at Sherlock who's glaring at his phone in turn. "You never told me there were _more of you_!" John's voice gets embarrassingly high as the words tumble out. "I've known you almost a year and I never even knew you had a sister, much less _three_ of them! Why haven't you ever said?" He's hurt, slightly angry, too.

Sherlock looks at John in confusion. "You never asked."

John lets out a wordless shout of frustration, throwing his arms in the air. He pierces Mycroft with a steely glare. "I accept your invitation, Mycroft. It's very kind of your family."

"I thought you were having Christmas with _your_ sister!" Sherlock says, ignoring his phone in favor of gaping at John with betrayal glimmering in his eyes.

"Well that's funny, because I thought you and I were having Christmas together here at the _flat_!"

"Do the two of you ever actually communicate useful information to each other?"

"Shut up, Mycroft," John and Sherlock snap together.

Mycroft raises his hands in placation. "Sherlock, for God's sake, this isn't sixth form. Nobody wants to humiliate you. Everyone's curious about John and you've hidden him away long enough. Time to let Rapunzel out of the tower."

"Did you just compare me to a fairy tale princess?" John asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes, he did," Sherlock says triumphantly, as though the argument has turned in his favor.

"Just checking," John says mildly, causing Sherlock to frown again. "How many days should I pack for?"

"You're really going?" Sherlock asks John who nods. "But _why_?" Sherlock asks, looking genuinely puzzled.

"Are you kidding me? Three sisters and at least one parent?"

"Two," Mycroft corrects.

"Two parents! That's _five whole Holmeses_ I've never met! Do you honestly think I'd pass up an opportunity to see where you come from? To meet the people who were there when you were growing up? This is like _gold_. For every question I asked that you never answered, I've got at least _five other people_ to ask. I'm _so_ going, and you can't stop me."

With that, John throws himself down onto the sofa and spreads his arms along the back feeling oh-so-exultant. "How long will I be there?" he asks Mycroft.

"Pack for a week."

"Sounds good. Oh, and what should I pack to wear? Do I need formal dress for dinner or—"

"This isn't _Downton Abbey_ , John," Sherlock says. "Your current wardrobe is fine."

"Bring one suit to wear for Christmas Day photos," suggests Mycroft. "Or at least something smart."

Sherlock thrusts his phone in his pocket and crosses his arms. "If John's going then I'm riding in the car with him tomorrow," he says decisively. "And I'm not leaving Mum and Dad's until he does."

Something almost imperceptible passes between the two brothers. If John wasn't looking right at them, he would've missed it. It's nothing more than an arched eyebrow on Mycroft's part before Sherlock growls—actually _growls_ —in frustration.

"Oh, please, you walked right into that one," Mycroft says smugly and fights back a smile. Then he turns to John. "I'm glad you've chosen to accept. I'll let my parents know at once. The car will be here at nine. Good day, gentlemen."

With that, he swings his umbrella forward and taps it on the floor then pushes to his feet.

"Out!" Sherlock growls again and gets behind Mycroft to push him out the door faster then slams it hard enough to shake the walls.

"Mrs. Hudson will have something to say about that," John murmurs, tilting his head at the door.

Sherlock turns to pace. "This is intolerable!" he says.

"Out of curiosity, how many Holmeses are there?"

Sherlock stops pacing and spins to look at John out from under his lowering brow. "Too many," he answers in a dark voice.

"Okay, then," John mutters, blowing air out of his cheeks. "That's not intimidating at all. I guess I should go pack."

All he gets from Sherlock is a grunt, though he waits for a few seconds to see if Sherlock will say anything else. He doesn't. John rubs his hands together and, feeling awkward—not an unusual feeling around Sherlock—retreats quietly to his bedroom where he spends an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear during his stay.

~*~

A mug of tea sits cooling on the floor next to Sherlock as he and John sit peaceably in front of the fire. John glances up to find Sherlock staring at him. Sherlock's face breaks into a sultry smirk, and his hand drops onto his knee, palm up. He wiggles his fingers in a _come-hither_ gesture and John—helpless to stop himself—goes thither. Sherlock stands John between his spread knees before sitting up straight and tilting his head back so that he's looking up at John. It's a novel experience, looking down at Sherlock Holmes. Speaking of novel, the permission to frame Sherlock's face between his hands and bend to press their lips together is still new enough to give John nervous flutters in his chest.

"You're an insufferable bastard, you know that?" John mutters against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock hums happily, as though John has just given him a compliment. "Oh, we're that confident, are we?" John asks, pulling back, taking in Sherlock's delighted smile, his throat framed taut as he looks up into John's eyes. John stares at Sherlock's Adam's apple and the goose bumps that have formed over that pale stretch of skin. He wants to bite it.

"I don't know about _we_ , but _I'm_ fairly confident, yes," Sherlock says with a grin. Then he wraps his arms around John's body, his hands cupping John's arse. With one tug, Sherlock pulls him onto his lap. "Judging by the erection you're rubbing against my stomach, I have every reason to feel confident." Then his long fingers with their knobby knuckles have somehow opened John's trousers without him realizing it and are wrapped around the aforementioned erection and—

—and John wakes in his bed, hard as marble and on the verge of going off hands free. "Jesus," he gasps, taking himself in hand. His strokes are familiar but the erotic remnants of the dream cling to him, and he holds on, tightly, because this thing he feels for Sherlock, this stupid infatuation is hurtling him towards a horizon where razor sharp rejection waits. He might as well enjoy the fantasy while he has it untainted by humiliation.

He allows himself to imagine that he's still sitting in Sherlock's lap, legs spread, one of Sherlock's arms locked tight around him, the hand digging into his hip while Sherlock's other hand takes over for John, stroking, sliding. John has imagined what Sherlock is like, sexually, whether he's aggressive or shy or matter-of-fact and he believes—although maybe just because this is how he likes to imagine it—that Sherlock is predatory in bed, that he takes his lovers mercilessly, so that's what John imagines. Those slender pale fingers and that deep dark voice murmuring obscenities in John's ear.

John comes with a shout that he doesn't muffle in time and he knows that Sherlock will have heard it.

John's amazed he's kept his feelings to himself for this long. It won't last. Nobody can keep secrets from Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock _will_ find out and when he does, the exhilarating life they have together will be over. Why would a man single-mindedly devoted to his work, hateful towards the drives of his body, and derisive about sentiment—why would he suddenly change all that just because John's in love with him?

"Dammit," John says quietly before lifting up his cum-covered hand and glaring at the mess. "You're a fool."


	2. Saturday, 3 Days Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the Holmeses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces Sherlock and Mycroft's three sisters--Sherrinford, Eurus, and Charysa. However, and I cannot stress this enough, **the Eurus in this story bears ZERO resemblance to the Eurus of season 4!** Don't let the name throw you off. The Holmes siblings birth order is: Mycroft (age 40), Sherrinford (age 38), Sherlock (age 33), Eurus and Charysa (twins, age 18)

* * *

When Sherlock comes out of his room with his bag the next morning, he's wearing dark jeans and a silver-grey crew neck jumper. It takes a frown from Sherlock for John to realize he's staring.

"You're wearing _jeans_ ," John says dumbly.

Sherlock gives him a sardonic look and opens his mouth to speak, but then shakes his head and mutters, "Too easy." Then he's dropping his bag next to the door and asking for tea.

John can't help his gawping. There's only two ways Sherlock dresses—straight up formal (or as formal as one gets without putting on a tuxedo) or ratty t-shirts and pajama bottoms. The only times John's seen Sherlock dress casually is when he's in disguise, but he's not _Sherlock_ at those times. To see Sherlock dressed down as himself feels so close to illicit to John that he avoids Sherlock's gaze for the rest of the morning.

His mind remains so fogged with the way Sherlock looks in _jeans_ that they're already in the car and crossing over the Thames on Hammersmith Bridge before John even thinks to ask where they're going.

"Lewes," Sherlock says without looking at him. His elbow is propped on the armrest of his door. His face is turned towards the window, the first two fingers of his right hand covering his lips. He looks pensive to John— _broody_. Every few seconds, he taps his lips with his fingers.

"Wow, that's. Not helpful _at all_."

Sherlock sighs, and turns his face towards John. "It's five minutes walking distance from a tiny village which you will never have heard of." He turns back to face the window and John huffs through his nose.

"You're unhappy about going to see your family. Why? Did Mycroft invite me just to irritate you? Please tell me that's not why he invited me."

John sees a flash of something dark in Sherlock's eyes before he closes them. He takes a deep breath and turns to John with open eyes and a closed expression. "I'm not unhappy about seeing them. I'm not altogether happy _you'll_ be seeing them. As for why Mycroft invited you, I suspect he was only the messenger and that my family sent him to force my hand."

"Force your hand about what?"

"You," Sherlock says cryptically and then turns back to the window.

A shiver of excitement goes through John at this mysterious reply. _You_ echoes through his mind and his imagination takes it and spins it into a fantasy: _You, John, (Sherlock says, his gaze burning into mine). Only you. (And then he cups the back of my head and kisses me.)_ John closes his eyes and draws a sharp breath through his nose when desire flares. When he opens his eyes it's to find Sherlock staring at him, his eyes glittering with curiosity. That's never good and inevitably means Sherlock will discover something about John that he didn't even know he wanted to hide. Sherlock's eyes narrow thoughtfully, and John thinks, _oh my god he knows_.

He blurts out, "So, are they nice? Your family?"

Sherlock makes a soft sound, staring keenly at John. "You'll love them," he says finally, voice thoughtful, "and they will love you."

John can't help but smile. "But that's a good thing. Right?"

"I suppose." Sherlock nods and stares down at his hands.

"Well," John says peevishly. "At least someone will enjoy me being there, since you so obviously won't."

"It's not that I won't enjoy you being there. I just prefer to keep my family life and my private life separate."

"Your family life is supposed to _be_ your private life," John says, oddly satisfied to be considered part of Sherlock's _private_ life.

"Says the man who keeps his remaining family member at arm's length."

"I would say _touché_ except that Harry is an unrepentant alcoholic and I would be a fool to trust her."

"A very sane point of view. Addicts cannot be trusted."

"You're trustworthy," John points out. "I know the sayings _once an addict, always an addict,_ and, _there's only addicts who use and addicts in recovery_ , but I trust you."

Sherlock turns to look at John with an amused half smile. "Really? You and I must have different definitions of the word _trust_. In my experience, every time I tell you to trust me, you question me pugnaciously—" John starts giggling at Sherlock's mock-offended face, "Stop laughing! And _then_ you proceed to critique whatever plan I've asked you to trust in and expound upon all the ways in which things will go horribly wrong if you trust me and do what I say!"

"But I do it anyway," John says with a grin, though the statement illuminates a truth inside him that he knows cannot be uprooted.

Sherlock's already turned back to the window but he smiles, a secret fleeting thing John would have missed had he not been watching for Sherlock's reaction. "That you do, my friend."

~*~

It takes a little over two hours to get from Baker Street to the tiny village of East Hoathly. Once they get off the M23, the rest of the drive is spent passing through one little village after another with miles and miles of farms and pastureland in between.

"This is East Hoathly coming up," Sherlock says. He leans over with sudden urgency and says, "Look, I would not tell them too much."[i]

"Who?"

"My sisters. Women are never to be entirely trusted—not even Sherrinford, and she's the best of us."

"Okay," John says, frowning. "That's a bit sexist, but okay."

They pass through the village of East Hoathly and the last houses, then there are trees to their right and more pastures to their left. Then Sherlock says, "We're here," and John looks around, wondering where _here_ is. Before he can discern for himself, the car is pulling into a circular driveway. He can feel as well as hear crushed gravel beneath the car's tires.

The driver pulls up in front of the porticoed front door before John's able to register much more than three stories of red sandstone, a dark slate mansard roof, and two huge chimneys reaching up to the pearl grey sky.

The glossy black door opens to reveal a crowd of people smiling expectantly at the car. Two girls who don't even look old enough to have started uni push through the crowd and one of them rushes down the steps to the car. John has a few seconds to register that she and the other girl are twins before she's yanking Sherlock's car door open.

"Oh, it's you," she says, her voice rife with disappointment. Sherlock's laugh surprises John. It's full of an indulgent fondness John doesn't think he's ever heard in that deep rumble before. He would never have even thought Sherlock capable of feeling something like that.

"Leave him—" Sherlock says, reaching for her, but she darts away.

John watches in alarm as she rounds the front of the car to his side and pulls open the door.

"Oh my God, I'm so glad you're here! Well, c'mon! Don't just sit there with your mouth hanging open! I'm Eurus by the way," she says and grabs John by the arm.

John allows himself to be hauled out of the car. He's overwhelmed with details—the dormer windows of the second floor, the black shutters on the windows, the grey-green of the lawn that extends just past the drive into trees and then, beyond that, a glimpse of fallow farmland. There's so much for him to take in that he barely registers the chatter of the girl holding him hostage, dragging him inexorably towards the door and the waiting group of people.

He has the sudden feeling he's being marched to his doom. He sees Mycroft, which fills him with relief (possibly the only time it will do so); a beautiful redhead who must be the older sister as she looks just like Sherlock except with Mycroft's auburn hair and turned up nose; an elderly couple who must be their parents—the woman's eyes are the exact shade of Sherlock's and it's obvious Sherlock gets his cheekbones from his father.

The next ten minutes play out in flashes for John as he struggles to take everything in. Eurus is gripping his arm, pulling him towards the group. John feels himself begin to shiver from nerves, and then shame rolls over him. Perhaps _this_ is why Sherlock didn't want him here—he knew that John would find this difficult. They're all looking at him in expectation, _wanting_ something from him that John can't begin to guess.

Then Sherlock's hand slides around John's waist, pulling him firmly, but gently, away from the clutch of his younger sister, and John finds himself leaning against Sherlock as though it's entirely natural. Once Eurus lets go, Sherlock takes back his arm, but he leaves his palm resting in the small of John's back. His touch is light, but his hand may as well be a brand. It's all John can focus on and his face colors. Surely, everyone else sees it?

"John, these are my parents, Violet and Will Holmes," Sherlock says with calm authority.

"Oh, we're so delighted to finally meet you!" Violet says, clapping her hands together. She's tall and heavy, dressed in a dark green flowing tunic and trousers, beads dangling around her neck and her grey hair held back by the pair of spectacles perched on the top of her head. She reaches for him as though to pull him into a hug, but then stops short, eyes flicking to Sherlock's then back to John. Instead of a hug, she clasps his arms, squeezing once and then letting go.

Will is tall, also grey-haired, brusquely cheerful when he shakes John's hand and welcomes him.

"This is Sherrinford," Sherlock then says, turning John towards the woman standing next to Mycroft. She's got beautiful auburn hair, cut short, that curls like Sherlock's. Her hourglass figure draws John's eyes and he relies on two decades of training to keep his eyes on her face and not stare at her breasts.

"Hello," she says in a husky, measured voice. If John wasn't in love with Sherlock, he would _so_ try to sleep with her. "Sorry for all the fuss, but we really _are_ so pleased to have you with us this Christmas."

"You know my arch-nemesis," Sherlock says, steering John away from Mycroft.

"Sherlock!" Violet chastises, but she laughs anyway.

"These two silly creatures are my twin sisters Charysa and Eurus. Separately they're tolerable, but together they leave one feeling much the same way I imagine the citizens of Constantinople felt after the city was sacked by the Ottomans."

"Gah, that joke is so old," Eurus says, glaring at Sherlock. Her straight dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she's wearing jeans and an unflatteringly oversized cable knit jumper. She's pretty, but without makeup and in the clothes she's wearing, it's like she's trying to hide her beauty.

"Eurus is the mean one," Sherlock says to John in a stage whisper.

The other twin, Charysa, is wearing a paint-splattered smock over an ankle length skirt and what looks like a man's button up flannel shirt. Her hair is loose and her feet bare. She's wearing bright red lipstick and her eyes are lined with black which makes her stormy-blue eyes seem brighter than her twin sister's. She hugs John voraciously and says, in a sweet, almost gentle voice, "Welcome to Pombley Way. You are _adorable_."

"Pombley what?" John asks faintly.

"Charysa is the nice one," Sherlock says, and grins at Eurus who tries to maintain an angry glare but it fails as her lips start to twitch into a smile.

 _Ah_ , John thinks to himself. _Eurus is his favorite_.

It's Eurus's turn to hug John. "You really _are_ adorable. Shame on you, Sherlock."

"Shame on me for what?" Sherlock asks Eurus, pulling on her ponytail. She huffs and slaps his hand away.

"For hiding him away for so long," Charysa says and then beams at John.

"Yeah, really, Sherlock. Are you ashamed for your boy—"

"Eurus!" Sherrinford snaps, giving her sister a quelling and wide-eyed look.

"Jenny put the two of you in the Apple Suite," Violet says quickly, stepping into John's space, and the slender woman standing behind Violet waves at John and then hugs Sherlock tightly. "Why don't you take John up there now so he can get settled in and then the two of you can come down and join us in the sitting room?"

"But, _Mum_ , we've been waiting—" begins Charysa imploringly, then Eurus jumps in with, "We've waited _forever_ to meet him!"

"Girls," Sherrinford says authoritatively, but Sherlock's voice overrides all protests of or agreements to the prescribed course of action. "John and I are going upstairs and taking some time to get settled in, and all nosy little barbarians will stay away until we've come back down," he says, smacking each girl gently on the back of their heads. "Mum, can you send up some tea and sandwiches? We've not eaten yet today."

"Of course! I'll send Jenny up with a tray. I also have some _clafoutis aux pommes_ fresh out of the oven."

"That sounds _perfect_. You're the most amazing mother I've ever had. Come along, John," Sherlock says as commandingly as ever, but instead of John having to rush after the swinging skirt of Sherlock's coat, it's Sherlock's hand at the small of John's back pressing him forward, towards the navy-blue carpeted stars. As they climb each step, John can feel the wool cloaked front of Sherlock's chest brushing against his back. An erotic thrill shivers through John's body at the thought of Sherlock crowded up against him like that. Sherlock's hand never leaves the small of John's back, not as they follow the plush navy carpet down a dark paneled hallway, nor as they enter a set of double doors that opens onto a small sitting room. In fact, Sherlock doesn't step away from John until there's a knock at the open door and Sherlock greets the young woman (presumably Jenny) who pushes in a cart laden with an impressive tea service. John's stomach growls.

"Anything else, Mr. Holmes?" Jenny asks after she parks the cart next to the low table flanked by two leather club chairs.

"No thank you, Jenny," Sherlock says, and she leaves, shutting both doors on her way out.

John stands there, staring at the cart. His mind is overfilled with everything he's seen and the people he's met in the last ten minutes.

"Come sit down, John. Eat," Sherlock says, already pouring tea into the cups. "I knew you'd be overwhelmed. We should have half an hour, though, before the barbarians descend upon us."

John obediently sits, watching as Sherlock fixes his tea exactly as he likes it and hands it to him. While John gratefully sips his tea, Sherlock takes the two white porcelain plates and piles them with neatly cut triangles of sandwiches, three each of cucumber and cheese on each plate. He pours ice water from a pewter pitcher into two tall glasses.

And then, to John's shock, Sherlock serves him. He sets the plate before John, the glass of water to its left; takes a folded cloth serviette and sets it to the right of the plate. Then he puts his own plate, water, tea, and serviette in front of his place and sits.

"Thank you," John says slowly, voice full of awe.

"Stop," Sherlock says, sitting down and snapping out the serviette before placing it in his lap. "I was taught how to treat a guest growing up."

John snorts a laugh and then descends greedily on his sandwiches.

~*~

"If you have any questions about my family, now's the time to ask," Sherlock says after they've eaten all the sandwiches. He's leaning back in the leather chair he's sat in, one ankle resting on the knee of the other leg, elbows resting on the arms and fingertips steepled. It's a pose that tends to overstimulate John's libido, which is already constantly stimulated around Sherlock.

"Mm," John mumbles, mouth full of the _clowfootee-oh-whatever_ , which turns out to be an apples and flan type dish. He's already eaten two of the four ramekins that were on the tray. He points with his spoon at the last one with a questioning eyebrow.

"No, go ahead," Sherlock says, smiling. "I'm glad you like it. It's my grandmother's recipe, but Dad's apples."

"What's it called again?"

" _Clafoutis aux pommes_."

"Speaking of pom—your sister—Charysa?—said something about Pom-something. What did she mean?"

"Pombley Way is the name of the estate. According to my Uncle Freddy, our family moved here from France during the first Napoleonic war. They fled with plenty of their funds intact, apparently, because they were able to buy the estate from some poor English noble with gambling debts. There was an apple orchard gone to seed on the grounds and my ancestor was charmed by it. He renamed the estate _Pommier Oublée_ , which means _forgotten apple tree._ Eventually, that turned into _Pombley Way._ You know how the English take joy in butchering foreign languages."

"But they were French," John said, spooning up the last of the dessert and putting it in his mouth.

"I imagine the subsequent generations shed their French background as quickly as possible. After all, Holmes is hardly a French name. Come now, John, surely you have more questions. In the car you were practically bouncing with curiosity."

"Your sisters—the twins—how old are they?"

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh. "They just turned eighteen in October."

"Oh, wow, they're _much_ younger than you. Your parents must've been—"

"Mother was forty-five and Dad was forty-nine."

John whistles and says, "I bet that was a shock."

"You have no idea," Sherlock drawls.

"So how old were you when—?"

"Sixteen. I was still at home when they were born. They were devilishly troublesome little things from the moment they were conceived. I daresay they're the reason my parents are completely grey."

The obvious love in his voice is a direct contradiction to his words. John feels guilty for ever thinking that Sherlock was cold or unfeeling. After all, Sherlock is warm to John and always has been, even when they first met.

"I can't believe this. You're just—" John begins, shaking his head in amazement.

"What?" Sherlock asks, frowningly defensive.

"There's just so much about you that I don't _know_. Which isn't fair, since you know everything about me, even the stuff— _especially_ the stuff—I wish you didn't know. Although, I'm nowhere near as interesting as you."

"Nonsense! I find you endlessly fascinating."

John raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"I do," Sherlock says quietly.

John feels his face heating pleasantly. He reaches forward to refill his tea which allows him to keep his eyes somewhere other than on Sherlock's gorgeous untouchable face.

~*~

When they finally go downstairs, John hears the murmur of voices inside an opened sitting room door. He doesn't know what he expected—something from _Downton Abbey_ , as Sherlock accused yesterday. The room is three times as large as their own sitting room with ceilings that reach twenty feet. Other than that, though, it might as well be _their_ sitting room, so cluttered with books and objects is it.

To the left is a green baize topped table upon which is spread an unfinished puzzle. Everyone but Mycroft and Will are working on it. It's a pool table, John realizes, clearly only temporarily co-opted as a surface for putting puzzles together because the wall behind it holds a rack for cues. On the right, a short marble bar with a wine refrigerator sits in the corner and next to it are double French doors that open onto another room, an atrium of sorts it seems. John glimpses glossy dark green leaves sprouting from smooth green brown trunks so slim they're almost delicate.

Mycroft and Will sit in facing chairs in front of a hearth twice the size of the one in the Baker Street flat. The fire burns pale orange hot and occasionally John can hear the snap of exploding sap over the sound of conversation. The walls on either side of the fireplace are bookshelves that reach all the way to the ceiling. One of those fancy ladders found only in a gentleman's library is pushed in the far right corner.

Everyone looks up when they walk in and John automatically blushes, then purses his lips in displeasure.

"John!" Eurus and Violet call joyfully. Violet adds, "Do you like putting puzzles together?"

John nods without thinking and notices the piano and garishly decorated Christmas tree in the left-hand corner of the room that he couldn't see from outside the room. Presents are heaped under the tree, some of them overrun with curled ribbons, some of them wrapped haphazardly in drab Christmas paper. It's clear that they were wrapped by more than one person.

Sherlock murmurs something to his mother and she nods seriously, then pulls aside Eurus and Charysa and repeats whatever Sherlock said. The focus of the women around the table suddenly moves from John back to the puzzle. Sherlock turns to John and asks, "Puzzle?"

Before he can answer, Mycroft is on his feet and moving towards John. "Can I get you something to drink, John? Scotch? Wine?" He moves behind the bar and waits.

"Um," John says.

"Whiskey," Sherlock says over his shoulder, his hand once again on the small of John's back, setting him on fire.

"You can get your own drink," Mycroft says with brotherly dismissiveness.

"Whiskey for _John_ ," Sherlock clarifies, and his hand guides John none too gently to his side at the table. "Puzzle, John," Sherlock says sharply and John laughs and, ever compliant, turns his focus on the puzzle.

For the rest of the evening, nobody interrogates him and none of the occasional questions lobbed his way are intrusive. This is Sherlock's doing and while irritated that Sherlock thinks he needs such intervention, John is also grateful.

As he lies in bed that night, trying to sleep, John can't help but ruminate on why Sherlock had been so freaked out about John accepting the invitation to come here. He would understand if Sherlock's family were horrible or embarrassing, but they're fun and welcoming. In fact, as soon as he was near his family, Sherlock's whole body lost the tension he'd been holding on the drive here.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't worried about how his family would appear to John, but how _John_ would be received by his family. If that's the case, does that mean that Sherlock worries that _John_ will be the one to embarrass him?

The fear dogs him in his sleep and his dreams are full of Sherlock's disapproving face.

 

[i] This line and the one about Sherrinford being "the best of them" is a paraphrased quote from _The Sign of the Four_. The original quote is, "I would not tell them too much. Women are never to be entirely trusted—not the best of them."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding character and place names:
> 
> 1\. I used the names Sherrinford and Eurus for two of the sisters because those are names already familiar to us, being associated with canon. For the third sister, I remembered a guy I dated before I met my husband who had a daughter named Charysa. I thought it was bizarre enough of a name to belong to a Holmes.
> 
> 2\. The names of Sherlock's parents, Will and Violet, are the same ones I use whenever I write his parents into one of my stories. William is from BBC canon, being Sherlock's first name. As for Violet—I'm not sure where I got it, but that's what I called his mother in my very first Sherlock fanfiction, _The Assistant_ which I wrote in March of 2017. Will and Violet have been Sherlock's parents' names ever since!
> 
> 3\. In the earliest drafts of this story, I followed both ACD and BBC canon and used "Musgrave Hall" as the name for the Holmes family home, but after typing it over and over, I realized that I really hated the word "Musgrave." It sounds like the bastard offspring of a weasel and a wolverine. If you know my writing, you know I have no compunction about changing something canonical if it suits the story. In this case, it very much suited the _writer_ of the story to change the name of the family home.


	3. Sunday, 2 Days Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes sisters play Cupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm up at midnight and since technically it's the 23rd, I'm posting early for all the night owls and/or early morning risers.

* * *

The next morning at half seven, Charysa and Eurus knock on John's door.

"Yes?" he asks, opening it a crack.

"Breakfast is at nine sharp," Eurus says.

"And Mass is at eleven," Charysa adds. "Mum doesn't care if you go to Mass, but we really _really_ want you to come to breakfast, okay?" They both grin at him hopefully. They're in matching sets of pajamas which John finds odd. Don't twins grow out of that type of thing? It distracts him momentarily and he takes a few seconds to respond while he blinks away the night's sleep. "Ah, okay then. I will be down for breakfast at nine o'clock sharp."

Charysa claps her hands together happily.

Eurus says, "We brought tea!" and points towards the sitting room off which his and Sherlock's bedrooms and connecting bathroom are located. ( _That's why it's called a_ suite _, John_ , Sherlock had explained to him the night before.)

Sherlock comes out of his room scowling. "Go away," he says to the girls.

"Mum says breakfast is at—" Charysa begins to recite.

"Nine sharp, yes, yes, go away," he says looming over his sisters.

"And Mass is at—" Eurus tries.

Sherlock leans threateningly over the two girls, who tilt their heads back but don't look at all cowed by Sherlock's glowering face. "Go. Away."

"We brought tea," Charysa says sweetly.

Eurus, on the other hand, says, "You don't have to be such an arsehole," to Sherlock before grabbing her sister and dragging her away.

Charysa waves at John and calls, "See you at breakfast!"

"Tea, John," Sherlock mutters and stomps, sexily bed-rumpled, to the sitting room to await John's service.

~*~

Despite Sherlock's rude behavior towards his sisters when he woke up, breakfast with the Holmeses cements the belief John developed the night before—Sherlock's family is a happy family, and Sherlock's happy when he's with them.

After breakfast, Eurus and Charysa corner John in a hallway off the kitchen as he's coming out of the bathroom. Eurus leans against the wall next to him and crosses her arms. Charysa stands right in front of him so that he can only get away if he pushes past them, but he doesn't want to be rude.

"So," Charysa says, eyes glowing with the kind of light Sherlock gets when he's discovered something vital to solving a crime. "We've been begging Sherlock _forever_ to introduce us to you, but I can't believe he brought you home for Christmas! That's, like, _huge_."

Smirking, Eurus adds, "Yeah. He's had _loads_ of boyfriends, but he's never brought one home before."

 _Loads?_ John thinks, but he says, stiffly, "I'm not his boyfriend."

"Not yet, but obviously he _wants_ you to be," Eurus declares confidently. She and Charysa share a coy grin.

"Sherlock doesn't do—boyfriends and—that sort of thing," John mutters, his face ablaze.

" _What_?" Eurus blurts, drawing the word out. "He's totally into you!"

"Yeah, he talks about you every time we see him," Charysa adds.

They're bobbing their heads in unison and wearing matching smiles. John just stares at them in horror, causing their happy faces to darken.

"But don't you _want_ to be his boyfriend?" Charysa asks with the kind of beseeching look that makes John want to give her whatever she's asking for.

"Uh—" John's thoughts trip over each other. His face starts to burn as a knowing look comes into both girls' eyes. They glance at each other and then back at John with mirror expressions, blazing with purpose.

"Do you think he's handsome?" Eurus asks, bumping John's shoulder with hers.

John side-eyes her. "Um—"

Charysa elbows her and says, "That's not fair. If he says no, he sounds like a jerk, but if he says yes, it's like revealing his feelings and clearly he's not comfortable admitting he's got feelings for Sherlock."

She looks back at John with a wide-eyed deviousness that suggests her words are less a rebuke of her sister than part of a script she and Eurus have written together. John gawps at them and, with an aching fondness, thinks about how very much like Sherlock they are.

"There you are!" Sherrinford announces from the mouth of the hallway. All three of them whirl to face her as she marches towards them. She's scowls at the girls and says, "Mum and Dad are waiting for you two in the entry hall. It's time for Mass. Besides, John didn't come here to be attacked by two nosy brats."

"Why don't _you_ have to go to Mass?" Charysa asks with a pout.

"I went at six this morning," Sherrinford says with an imperious look.

"Oh, well, good on you," Eurus mutters and sticks her tongue out at her sister, but there's no real venom in her voice. Sherrinford shoos the girls away.

"Later John!" Charysa calls over her shoulder and Eurus adds, "Yeah, what she said!"

John finds himself jealous of the easy way the Holmes siblings interact with each other.

"I'm so sorry," Sherrinford says when her sisters are gone. "They have no shame." She hooks her arm inside his elbow and says, "I thought you might share a cup of tea with me. Dad wants you to see his trees, but they won't be back for at least two hours. It's quite a drive to the church and there's always social obligations afterwards. That's why I go early—I can get away much quicker."

"Cup of tea sounds marvelous," John says, and winks at her. "I never pass up an offer of tea."

After they've poured themselves a cup and retired to the breakfast table, John asks, "Where's Sherlock gone off to, then?"

"Oh, uh—actually, I don't know. Probably looking for you, worried we're scaring you off him."

John smiles and shakes his head. "Not bloody likely if Mycroft hasn't managed it yet." John takes the opportunity to spring his curiosity on Sherrinford. "Speaking of Mycroft, what's the deal between him and Sherlock?"

Sherrinford snorts. "God, those two," she begins, shaking her head as she looks out the window. "I don't think it's any one thing, but more the way Mycroft treated him growing up."

"Was he awful to him?"

"Oh, no, the opposite. Always very protective of Sherlock, but he's a know-it-all—"

John snorts in wry amusement.

Sherrinford grins over her cup of tea before she takes a sip. "Yes, well, he's always had a tendency to go about protecting Sherlock in the way most likely to trigger Sherlock's stubbornness. That, in turn, made Mycroft sneakier and more heavy-handed in the way he took care of Sherlock, which I'm sure you can guess was very damaging to Sherlock's pride. He wanted Mycroft to admire him the way he admired Mycroft, and the fact that Mycroft _does_ seems lost on Sherlock. And God forbid he and Mycroft talk to each other like normal people."

"Normal," John huffs in laughter. "No offense, but I thought for sure you were all mad and that's why Sherlock didn't want me here. But you lot are totally normal, other than Mycroft and Sherlock. Though I suppose that's genius for you."

"Yes," Sherrinford says dryly.

John tries to cover his gaffe but ends up babbling. "Not that, you know, being normal isn't, uh—doesn't mean you're not a genius. Are you a—?" The amusement in Sherrinford's eyes makes his discomfiture worse. "Ah, hell, I feel an utter git. I'm sorry."

"John, stop apologizing. You haven't offended me. And you're right about my genius siblings. They get it all from Mum. She's a world-renowned mathematician and Eurus takes after her, though her field of study is computer science. Mycroft is a genius at strategy and observation. Charysa is an artist of multiple talents, all of which she has the ability to perform at a professional level. Dad and I? We're the normal ones. I'm just a headmistress at a girls' boarding school and Dad's never claimed to be anything other than what he is—a country squire."[i]

"Yeah, but, you can't say that doesn't make you smarter than most people, coming from this family," John says diplomatically.

"Oh, of course," Sherrinford agrees, smiling amusedly. "I'm sure you're smarter than most people as well. You'd have to be, considering how taken Sherlock is with you."

John looks down at his hands, feeling both flattered and chastised. They're quiet for a moment and John tries to come up with a clever way to keep her talking about Sherlock, but opts for straightforwardness.

"So, tell me what it's like being Sherlock's sister."

Sherrinford smiles and says, "Fishing for information?"

"Definitely," John says. "Shamelessly, in fact."

Laughing, she shakes her head in mock-disapproval. Her eyes lose their focus for a moment, and, to John's dismay, her normally open face seeps regret. Then she begins to speak again.

"Mycroft and I are seven and five years older, respectively, than Sherlock. He was our baby brother, and we denied him nothing, including our constant attention. Then he started school at five and Mum went back to work. When he was seven, Mycroft went away to boarding school and I followed two years later. Mum had long hours and Dad's always been busy with the estate, which isn't a job with office hours and a five day workweek. When all four of us were around, Sherlock had plenty of attention and affection, but with Mum back at work and not home until supper time most evenings, then Mycroft and I gone, Sherlock was...well—we abandoned him. Whether we meant to or not, he was completely unprepared for coping with the solitude."

 _"Alone is what protects me,"_ John quotes in a murmur.

Sherrinford slouches back in her seat. "God, he's still saying that bullshit? And I'm sure you've heard him claim he's a sociopath?" When John nods, she curses and shakes her head, looking off to the side, out the window that looks out onto the front drive. She sighs deeply, then turns back to John. "He never had any friends except this one boy," she says reluctantly. "It's not really my story to tell, you know, but—" She sits up straight in her chair and brings her cup to her lips, but doesn't drink. Absently, she sets her cup back down. "When Sherlock started secondary school, he met this boy, Victor. Sherlock was a day student, but Victor boarded, so he came over to our house all the time. I think his parents were overseas—I don't know all the details, and Sherlock has confided only a little to me. The rest I've inferred, you understand. Anyhow. They were inseparable. I think there was—well, I suspect there was…" She stops talking and runs her hands through her auburn hair, agitated. "Oh, damn, I feel like I'm betraying his trust even saying this much, but to put it bluntly—I think they experimented with sex. With each other, I mean, but for Sherlock—and this is just my conjecture, mind—for Sherlock, I think it was more than experimentation. I think he was in love with Victor. Or, as in love as one can be when one is that young.

"When they were sixteen, Sherlock and Victor had some kind of falling out. I'm not sure what happened, but we never saw Victor again. It devastated Sherlock and there was nobody here for him to talk to about it except Mum and Dad, but that was the same year Mum got pregnant with the twins. She was put on bedrest, so Dad was taking care of her all the time and there was Sherlock, going through this awful loss and nobody around to help him with it."

She gives John a mournful look. "Not that he _would've_ talked to anyone, but at the time Mycroft was in France, working for the Home Office, and I was finishing up my teacher training. Sherlock declared he had no interest in sixth form and went straight to Cambridge from school, against Mum and Dad's advice.

"After what happened with Victor, I think he just wanted to get _away_ , to go somewhere nobody knew him. He wasn't ready for university, though. Oh, I don't mean the academics, which he found easy. The rest of it, though—the social pressures, the need to fit in. Whether he couldn't or wouldn't, I don't know, but he was kicked out at the beginning of his second year for drugs. He was angry and depressed and refused to explain what happened. Mum and Dad sent him to rehab—" She closes her eyes, her face pinched and sorrowful, then opens them and continues. "My darling little brother—he was barely eighteen years old! When he got out, he moved back home for two years. Eurus and Charysa were almost two by then and Sherlock—much to everyone's surprise— _adored_ them. He carried them around, played with them, fed them, changed them, put them to sleep—he was a regular little daddy. When they were four, he announced he was going back to university. Mum and Dad told him they'd only allow it if he came home for every half-term and end of term break, and at least one weekend a month. I think most of the reason he agreed was because he genuinely enjoyed being with Eurus and Charysa. He's much closer to the girls than Mycroft or myself because, unlike us, he was here for much of their childhood.

"Anyway, he got a First in Chemistry and we thought that was the end of his troubles. Then he moved to London."

"Oh, no," John mutters. "I can guess where this is going."

"Yes," Sherrinford agrees with a grimace. "At first, he came home almost every weekend, then it became once or twice a month, and then his visits got further and further apart. The girls were in fifth grade and Mum had been back at work for four years already. Everyone was busy with their lives, and his longer absences were so gradual that nobody noticed until it was too late. Eventually, he stopped answering his phone and then one time I called him and got one of those recorded messages saying his phone number wasn't in service. Mycroft was back in London, then, thank God, and took over the search, but when he found out Sherlock had been kicked out of his flat, the trail went cold. There was a stretch of months where we had no idea what had happened to him. It was Detective Lestrade who finally contacted us, God bless him. Have you heard this story?"

John hums thoughtfully, tilting his head. "Let me see if I recall what Lestrade said. He just barely mentioned it shortly after I met Sherlock. Sherlock snuck onto a crime scene and did his thing. Lestrade arrested him, thinking _he_ must be the murderer, because how else—"

"—could he know all the details!" Sherrinford finishes, laughing lightly, and nodding her head. Her laughter fades. "Apparently, Sherlock was high, malnourished, and had been kipping on the street. Lestrade realized he wasn't the suspect fairly quickly, but didn't release him. He's sharp, DI Lestrade—he didn't _tell_ Sherlock he'd been cleared as the suspect, because he knew Sherlock would demand to be released and Lestrade thought he had too much potential just to turn out onto the street. He made a deal with Sherlock—if he got sober, Lestrade would see about getting permission to use Sherlock as a consultant. _But,_ he said, Sherlock had to give him the contact information for someone who would keep Sherlock accountable and with whom Lestrade could keep in touch with to occasionally verify that Sherlock _remained_ sober. Sherlock called Mycroft, Mycroft fetched him from jail, and Sherlock went back to rehab. This time it stuck."

"This was how long ago?" John asks.

"Oh, maybe—I think he was twenty-seven," she says, squinting in thought. "So, I guess about six years?"

They sit in silence for a while, and John drains the last of his cold tea, wincing at the taste. Sherrinford's given him much to think about, and even though this story makes John sad for and feel protective of Sherlock, there's the bubbling resentment at Sherlock's secretiveness. Sherlock has told John little about his past, but it's not like John expects him to lay out _everything_. Does friendship not mean the same thing to Sherlock that it does to John? _Perhaps_ , says an ugly voice in his head, _you're not as important to him as he is to you. After all—look at all the people who love him and want the best for him. He doesn't_ need _you, does he?_

Sherrinford breaks into his thoughts, saying, "If I could go back and do it all over, I'd make sure we realized what it felt like for Sherlock—how alone he was when we all moved on with our lives. Mycroft and I were close in age so it never felt like there wasn't someone I could depend on. The girls, of course, had each other, but Sherlock, being born so far apart from us—he was alone."

Sherrinford's voice breaks a little on the last word. "For me—and for Mycroft as well, I believe—Sherlock will _always_ be our baby brother and we will always adore him and want to take care of him. To Charysa and Eurus, he's the big brother they worship. You would think—we simply didn't question whether or not he knew how loved he was. He does now, I think—though sometimes I worry he keeps himself so closed off because, because—maybe he thinks we'll stop loving him if he allows any of his flaws to show." Sherrinford stands from her chair and walks to the window, leans against the wall, crosses her arms, and murmurs, almost to herself, "I wonder if that's the burden of all middle children."

"What's that, then?" John asks solemnly.

"To be surrounded by people who love you, and yet feel all alone." Sherrinford looks at him and smiles softly. Then she takes a deep breath, seems to brighten, and comes back to sit down with him, this time in the chair beside him. "John, I hate to think I'm as bad as my darling sisters, but I do have to ask you—what exactly is going on with you and Sherlock?"

John's heart seems to stop and then restarts, racing. "What do you mean by that?"

Sherrinford gives him a slightly disapproving look. "Don't play dumb. I mean, are you and he together?"

"No!" John nearly shouts. "No, we're not—he's not _into_ that."

"Into what?" Sherrinford asks, her face screwed up with confusion.

"Into boyfriends and all that—dating—relationship—stuff."

She looks thoughtful. "It's true he's never lacked for casual relationships, but I think he's serious about you."

John feels a flare of anger at having something so private discussed by someone he doesn't know, especially after Charysa and Eurus's ambush after breakfast. "Where are you lot getting this from? Sherlock has zero interest in me. He made it clear when we met. He's married to his work."

Sherrinford snickers. " _God_ , please don't tell me he used that line on you! He's _so_ full of shite! _Married to my work_. He's so melodramatic."

John finds his anger dissipating and he laughs, too. "He's _very_ melodramatic. And possessive. And bossy. And has no respect for my privacy. In fact, he's nosy as hell but closes up if I try to find out anything about him." John shakes his head, the laughter fading as the ache of unrequited love creeps in.

"But just to clarify— _you_ are interested in _him_ , am I right? It's certainly obvious you're attracted to—"

"Oh my _god_ , you're just as bad as Sherlock!" John moans, rubbing his face. "Give a bloke some dignity."

"If it makes you feel any better, it's obvious Sherlock's attracted to you, too."

"Obvious? Obvious to _who_?" John splutters.

"Well, everyone," Sherrinford admits with a shrug.

"Jesus," John says and rubs his hands over his face. Mortified, he springs up from his chair and turns with an intent to go. He doesn't know where, just _away_ from this painful unveiling of his heart, but then he turns back. "Not Sherlock, though, right? I mean, if he knew how I felt, he would say something. It's not like he minds his words or has any compunction about humiliating someone." The bitterness in John's voice surprises him.

"So, you _are_ interested?" Sherrinford asks carefully.

"No. No, I didn't say that. I'm not saying I am or—that I'm not. I'm just—no, I can't—" John stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room with his hands on his hips, unable to leave, but unwilling to sit back down with Sherrinford.

"John," Sherrinford says gently. "The two of you live together, work together, and are clearly the most important person in each other's life. If you're both attracted to each other and, and— _feel_ like that about each other, then why not take the next step?"

John remains in that liminal space, not in the kitchen nor out of it, facing away from Sherrinford.

"I can't! I just—Sherlock doesn't want me!" he says miserably. "He's married to his—hang on. Did you say that we _both_ have feelings for each other?" Now he turns to face her.

"Yes!" Sherrinford says with exasperation. She comes to stand by John and then says it again, _"Yes!"_

John smiles wistfully, letting himself imagine how their life might be if he and Sherlock were together like _that_. "So, he's said that? To you?"

"Well, no—not those exact words, you know," she admits with a grimace. "Like I said, though—it's obvious. Have you ever seen the way he looks at you? No, of course not, if you doubt what I'm saying," she mumbles to herself. Speaking to him again, she says, "He looks at you with such longing. And he talks about you _constantly_. Oh my _God_ , it was clear to us from the moment he met you that you were something special. Every time we saw him it was _John this_ and _John that_."

"When you say _us_ do you mean your entire family? Your parents? Bloody Mycroft too?"

"Yeah," she says solemnly, her face twisting with guilt. "Bloody Mycroft, too."

John buries his face in his hands so that his voice comes out muffled. "But what if you lot are wrong? I don't want to ruin the best friendship I've ever had."

Sherrinford takes John by the shoulders and shakes him gently. "John. Tell my brother how you feel. It's ridiculous for the two of you to pine like this when you could both be so happy together! Don't you want that?"

"Of course I bloody want it!" John cries in frustration. "Why don't you have this conversation with _him_ —"

At that moment, as though conjured by magic, Sherlock appears. John wills his face not to give anything away. Sherlock frowns. "What are you two doing in here?"

"Nothing," John says.

"Talking," Sherrinford says.

"About nothing," John adds, giving her the stink eye.

"Hm," Sherlock mutters, clearly suspicious. "John, Dad wants to show you the orchard."

"Yeah, all right," John says, grateful for the rescue even as he's terrified of what his face may reveal to Sherlock.

Sherrinford leans towards John as though she's going to whisper something in his ear, but Sherlock grips John's bicep and snatches him away from her. "What are you telling him?" he asks her with narrowed eyes.

"We were just—"

"Nothing," John says, and pulls Sherlock along with him to get away from Sherrinford before she says something that he'll deeply regret.

~*~

 For the rest of the day, John avoids Sherlock's eyes and curtly answers his questions or attempts at conversation. Now that John is aware his feelings are visible to Sherlock's family, he knows he only has days before Sherlock himself sees it. All John wants is to make it through Christmas and back home to the flat before he has that inevitable (and inevitably humiliating) conversation with Sherlock.

Immediately after supper, John turns down the invitation to retire with the family to the sitting room, claiming a headache, which isn't actually a lie. Sherlock, the stubborn git that he is, trails John up the stairs and into their suite, pestering John to tell him why he's been so short-tempered all day. John snaps at him to back off, and Sherlock does, looking both hurt and suspicious. John can tell Sherlock is dropping the issue _for now_. John locks his bedroom door and doesn't come out again until the next morning.

 

[i]  In "The Greek Interpreter," Holmes says, "My ancestors were country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is natural to their class."


	4. Monday, Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes parents get in on the matchmaking action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that light angst tag? Yeah, this is where it happens. I'd say I'm sorry but it's me and angsty just sort of...happens when I write.
> 
> But tomorrow morning, bright and early, you'll have 8700 words of kissing and making up, family togetherness, Christmas spirit, mushy gift giving, and happily ever after.

* * *

All of the staff are off because it's Christmas Eve, so when Sherlock knocks on John's door to tell him breakfast is a fend-for-yourself affair, John's relieved not to have to go downstairs. Avoiding Sherlock, without being obvious about it, is difficult enough as it is without having to blend in with the happy Holmeses. When John finally pokes his head out of his room around nine, he finds an empty suite and no sounds coming from either the sitting room or Sherlock's room. Triumphant, he meanders into the sitting room in his pajamas to see about getting a cup of tea.

Unfortunately, a lack of staff means no tea tray brought up to the suite. Then he steps fully into the main area of the suite and spots a note on the coffee table, held down with a pinecone from the Christmas centerpiece in the middle of the table.

_John, there's a kitchenette in the wardrobe to your right. You can make a cup of tea without fighting your way through the barbarian hordes._

_—S_

The intimacy and thoughtfulness behind the note brings an unexpected smile to John's face. He tucks it into an inside pocket of his jacket, which is hanging over the back of the armchair next to him. Then he turns around and to his right to check out this invisible kitchenette. Sure enough, in a console cabinet he finds everything he needs to make a cup of tea. He gives an unconscious wiggle of delight when he finds a pint of whole milk in an actual _glass container stoppered with a cork_. On one of the two shelves, a tray of cling-wrap covered pastries, including two ramekins of _clafoutis aux pommes._ A veritable treasure, indeed, and one he can enjoy without, as Sherlock wrote, dealing with a horde of Holmeses.

Right before noon, there's a knock on the outside doors. He's dozing on the couch, not a surprise considering his insomnia the night before. At least his headache is gone. This time it's Violet whose eager smiling face greets him when he pulls the door open.

"Time to stop hiding, my dear," she says wagging a finger in his face. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her glasses are hanging from a chain. She's wearing a hideous Christmas jumper that appears to be more tongue-in-cheek than earnestly worn. "We're leaving in an hour to go into the village for lunch and last minute shopping. Meet us by the front door at one o'clock."

Before John can protest or ask for more details, she's turned away and moving down the hallway towards the stairs. He opens his mouth to beg off, but she cuts him off without even turning around. "And, no, you can't get out of it! We invited you to spend Christmas _with_ us. I won't allow you to hide up here any longer."

 _Eyes in the back of her head_ , John thinks to himself, feeling oddly cherished, like he's just another one of her children. He's obediently downstairs at the appointed time.

"Looks like it might rain," Will says as all seven of them crunch along the driveway and out to the road that leads into the village.

"Jimmy Dawson'll give us a ride back if it does," Eurus says. When John glances at her, he sees her blushing, which means Sherlock doesn't miss it either.

"Jimmy Dawson?" Sherlock asks, putting a hand on Eurus's shoulder. "How do _you_ know he'll be able to give us a ride back, hm?"

She shakes off Sherlock's hand and _tsks_ with annoyance. "Because he's going to meet us at the church to go caroling, one of _many boys_ , by the way, who will be with the group tonight."

"Hold on—who said anything about caroling?" Sherlock asks, looking over Eurus's head at his Mum and Dad.

Sherrinford, whose head is bent towards Charysa's, lifts it and gives him a censorious look. "Don't pretend like we don't go caroling every Christmas Eve and have done since you were a baby."

"What if it rains?" Sherlock asks archly.

"Then I suppose Jimmy Dawson will give us a ride home," Will says with a laugh and claps his son on the back. He looks over at John and winks. "John, how do you feel about caroling?"

"I can't sing worth shit, but in a big enough group I don't suppose I can do much harm."

"John won't _harm_ the _harm_ ony," Charysa says and then giggles, moving to his side and wrapping an arm around his waist.

John cocks an eyebrow at her. "That wasn't really funny."

"I know," Charysa says and giggles again. "That's why it's funny."

"Are you _high_?" Sherlock asks her, smacking her in the back of the head.

"No! My God, you're such an arsehole!" she says. This is the first time John has heard her curse.

"Leave her alone," John says, annoyed with Sherlock on her behalf. Sherlock looks stung and his steps slow so that he's trailing the group, looking like a kicked dog. John feels a pang of guilt.

Sherlock wasn't exaggerating on Saturday when he said that Pombley Way was only a five minute walk from the village. Before John has a chance to even consider what he might say to sooth Sherlock's hurt, they're on the high street and heading towards a pub called The Kings Head.

After lunch, the group splits up. John ends up with Sherlock and his parents, but Sherlock—clearly still upset about John's earlier reprimand—grimly strides off ahead. Violet separates from John and Will to go after him. Will and John end up walking aimlessly in an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Will says, "I was worried we'd driven you off last night after supper."

"Oh, no, I just had a headache, that's all," John answers, feeling like a liar.

Will nods his head and they both let their gazes wander into the middle distance in the way two taciturn men who are strangers will do. The silence stretches out so long that it becomes comfortable by default as the two follow Violet and Sherlock, who get further and further ahead. Then, just as John lowers his guard, Will pulls what John now thinks of as a Holmes specialty—the emotional ambush.

"I don't mean to pry, John. I know Sherlock can be difficult, but I hope the two of you can work out whatever's got both of you looking so unhappy."

John bites back a groan, and says, simply, "So do I."

More silence ensues. Without looking at Will, John can sense that he wants to say something else.

"We've known Sherlock was gay since he was a boy, so if you're worried about our disapproval, don't be. We just want to see him happy."

John lets out a gusty sigh and mutters, "Sherlock and I aren't together."

Will comes to an abrupt stop, looking at John with open-mouthed surprise. When John, too, stops, and turns to him, Will clears his throat and stammers, "I, I thought—but the way he talks about you! And the girls said—well, I'm damned sorry, John."

"Don't apologize. No harm done," John says, and smiles tightly.

They start walking again, the silence once again uneasy. John looks for Sherlock, but he and Violet have disappeared. He cranes his neck around, wondering where they are and realizes the side street they were walking down has turned into a narrow dirt lane. There are spindly, bare trees to their left, and the backs of houses to their right. Ahead is a turnstile which opens up onto acres and acres of fallow farmland.

"Looks like we've come to the end of the road. Should we turn around?" John asks.

"I suppose we may as well," Will says, and gives John a mournful smile. "We're near as close to the house as we are to the pub. Lord knows where the rest have got off to. I reckon we can head home if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," John says.

As they walk back the way they came, a cold drizzle starts to fall. John and Will break into a jog. It only takes a few minutes for them to reach Pombley Way. When they walk in, shaking water off their coats, the house feels empty.

"Everyone else must still be in the village," Will says, sounding unconcerned.

"Do you think we should call them? Surely, they won't go caroling in the rain and it'll be dark soon."

"Don't fret, John, don't fret. They'll be around shortly. Build up the fire in the sitting room and I'll pour us a glass of whiskey to warm us up."

John eagerly does his bidding thinking nothing sounds better right now than a glass of whiskey and a seat by the fire with Sherlock's father. The Holmeses are growing on him, despite their inconvenient habit of sticking their noses into his personal life and Will has, so far, been the least pushy of the Holmeses.

Once they've eased into their chairs, and have a drink in their hand, that silent, serene camaraderie John usually experiences with Sherlock spreads from Will to John. Thirty minutes pass this way before John thinks to check on everyone else. He sends a quick text to Sherlock asking where they are. When the text isn't promptly answered, John puts his phone away and swallows the rest of his whiskey.

"Another?" Will asks, dipping his head at John's empty glass.

"Sure. No, sit—I'll get it," John says when Will starts to stand.

John has barely returned with his whiskey when Will says, "I know you said you and Sherlock weren't romantically involved, but I can't help but wonder—and stop me if I'm overstepping, here—whether that might change at any point."

John clears his throat then takes a healthy swig of his whiskey. "I can't say if it will or won't."

"You _can't_ say or you _won't_ say? I know it's not my business, but everyone seems to either think you _are_ together or that you'll _get_ together. I'd ask Sherlock, but he's not very open about that sort of thing."

"That's an understatement," John says, shaking his head with dismay.

Will leans forward confidentially and lowers his voice even though they're alone in the house. "I'm not known for the bluntness my wife and children are prone to, but in this one case, I intend to be utterly frank—I believe my son is in love with you. Do you return those feelings?"

John swallows hard and stares at the floor, then surprises himself by saying, "I can't say that you've got it right where Sherlock's feelings are concerned. As for myself, yes—yes, _if_ he felt that way about me, I'd return those feelings."

Will sits back in his chair with an air of satisfaction, an assured smile on his face. "That's good, John. That's very good and I'm damned glad to hear it. I reckon things between you and Sherlock will turn out all right after all."

"Only if Sherlock feels the same and I don't think he does."

"Well, I can't guarantee I'm right about my son, but I hope a lack of guarantee won't stop you. It would make me happy to see Sherlock settled down."

The light begins to turn gloomy and John checks his phone one more time. "I think I'll ring Sherlock and just see—" he says, rising up from his chair, but the front door opens, closes and the sound of girlish voices over the occasional monosyllabic rumble from Sherlock sifts in from the entryway.

Sherlock pokes his head into the sitting room but as soon as his eyes alight on John, he disappears again. John goes after him but by the time he's in the entryway, he realizes that he could search the house for the rest of the day and still easily miss Sherlock. There's too many ways to pass by each other without meeting.

Normally, when John and Sherlock need to talk about something uncomfortable, John makes them tea. This thought leads him to the kitchen where he finds all the women.

"John!" Charysa says, always the cheerful, eager Holmes. "We need you as tie-breaker. We're voting on whether or not we should go in the car to look at Christmas lights in the village since caroling is cancelled because of the rain. What do you think?"

"I vote we have a mellow Christmas Eve, which means lots of alcohol and an early bedtime for little barbarians."

John's surprised at how fond of the Holmeses he's become in such a short time. He wants to reach out and tousle Charysa's hair, but stops himself. Instead he gives her a grin and a wink when she pouts at him.

"I think John's a man after my own heart," Violet says, laughing loudly. "Sherrinford, why don't you take Charysa and whoever else wants to go, while John and I stay here and work on getting supper together."

"Let's wait for Mycroft and Evelyn to get here, Charysa. I'm sure Evelyn would enjoy going with us."

"Who's Evelyn?" John asks.

"Mycroft's wife," Eurus and Charysa say at the same time.

 _Wife?_ John mouths. "I didn't know he was married. He doesn't wear a ring."

"They work together," Violet says, then frowns. "I'm surprised you haven't met her yet."

John rolls his eyes. "Mycroft and Sherlock are about as forthcoming as, as—"

"Something that's not forthcoming?" Eurus suggests helpfully, and they all laugh, John included.

Sherrinford and the girls make their way out of the kitchen and John turns to Violet, intending to put himself at her disposal to help with dinner. Before he can say anything, though, she grabs his hand and pulls him off to a shadowed corner of the kitchen.

"John, what on _earth_ is going on with you and Sherlock?" she asks, and the tone of her voice gives John the disconcerting feeling that he's in trouble.

"I—"

She throws up her hands. "This is ridiculous! The two of you are like moody teenagers, both of you off sulking in your corner and refusing to explain anything. I thought Sherlock brought you here because you'd finally worked this whole friends-or-more-than-friends shit out. Then Sherlock tells me that he never should have let you come here because now we've made everything worse!"

John's skin prickles with dread. "He said that? That he shouldn't have brought me here?"

"Yes, he did—he did indeed say that, and I was very, _very_ unhappy to hear it. He wouldn't explain what he meant so maybe you can."

Confusion and desolation roil in John's gut. "I don't know what to say," he murmurs weakly and rubs both hands over his mouth.

"Well, I told Sherlock the same thing I'm telling you—if you don't sort this out before tomorrow, you'll regret it. I guarantee there's nothing worse than a lover's quarrel on Christmas Day."

John closes his eyes, defeated, and knows he shouldn't bother to tell her that he and Sherlock aren't lovers. Clearly the Holmeses think if they say a thing is true, then it will be true. _If everyone claps their hands and just believes_.

John swallows his irritation and says, "Sherlock and I are just friends," but it comes out dripping with despair.

Violet abruptly looks sheepish. Then she smiles gently and takes his face in her hands. "My darling boy, you and my son have never been _just_ friends, now have you?"

At a loss, John apologizes. Violet, who's three inches taller than John and outweighs him by at least two stone, pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.

"I just want the both of you to be happy, don't you see? That's all a mother wants for her children," she murmurs against his hair.

John doesn't say _I'm not your child_ , because he kind of wants to be, and the awful empty feeling bleeding through him, he realizes, is just _more_ wanting. In this case, wanting the feel of Violet Holmes's arms around him, hearing her call him _my darling boy._ Wanting to sit in a chair across from Will Holmes in front of a fire with a glass of whiskey in his hand, just like he often does with Sherlock. Wanting to feel comfortable tousling Charysa's hair and pulling on Eurus's ponytail and calling them _little barbarians_. Wanting to sit with Sherrinford, a cup of tea in hand, lamenting the difficulties of loving the prickly and quick tempered younger Holmes brother.

This wanting terrifies John because now he has more to lose if everything between he and Sherlock falls apart. Right now, John feels like the glue that keeps them together is beginning to lose its grip.

~*~

Full dark descends on the country. Once again, everyone has gathered in the sitting room, the warm heart of Pombley Way. John knows now that the French doors in this room lead to the apple orchard that is Will Holmes's cherished joy. The whole thing is entirely glassed in, which is why they have apples in winter.

John stares moodily out at the orchard now, his hands clasped behind his back. Suddenly, Mycroft appears next to him.

"Jesus!" John says, holding a hand on his heart. "You can't keep doing that to me. You'll give me a heart attack."

Mycroft looks a little pleased at John's outburst. "Nonsense, John," he says, his voice tinged with what John might say was fond amusement if he didn't know better. "Your last checkup showed you to be in excellent cardio health."

John groans and puts his face in his hands. There's no point in telling Mycroft to stay out of his medical records.

"I'd like you to meet my wife, Evelyn Barker-Holmes," Mycroft says and slips his arm around the waist of a woman in black slacks and a fir green silk blouse.

"Anthea!" John gasps.

Mycroft and Anthea ( _Evelyn_ , John corrects himself) laugh, flushed with satisfaction. John, on the other hand, thinks _oh my God, I tried to hook up with Mycroft's wife_.

"It's good to see you again, John," Evelyn says, and holds out her hand. John shakes it automatically, frowning in consternation.

"Yes, I—" John stops there, nothing coming immediately to mind. Then he decides to take a page from the Holmes handbook and be blunt. "I would say it's good to see you again, too, but quite frankly I'm feeling a bit blindsided."

At least Evelyn's smile shows a little guilt as she looks uncertainly up at Mycroft.

"It's not my fault if Sherlock didn't warn him," Mycroft says to her, but he's looking at John with narrowed eyes.

At that, John's mouth goes dry, blood roars in his ears, and he can feel his heartbeat in all four limbs. _I'm dying_ , he thinks as he tries to swallow. And then, _no, it's just a panic attack_.

"John?" Mycroft says as though from far away.

"Excuse me," John mumbles, very carefully turning to go, walking past everyone, ignoring the call of his name. His steps speed up when he gets to the front door, and then he's through it, running out into the cold wet night, heart hammering against his rib cage.

 _It's not my fault if Sherlock didn't warn him_ , Mycroft had said.

John runs straight out into the road, and down the dark stretch of it, the only illumination coming from the security lights on the outbuildings of the horse farm across the way. It's Christmas Eve and he wants to go home. But home, he realizes with the prickle of tears in his throat, is a flat on Baker Street with the man that, until now, he considered his best friend. They might never be _more_ in the way John wanted, but they were, at the very least, _more_ than flatmates.

Except Sherlock apparently finds great joy in keeping John in the dark and watching him scrabble to catch up. Sherlock likes to remain unknowable while flaying John and watching greedily as his secrets spill out. Sherlock, the man who John is painfully, hopelessly in love with, never wanted John to meet his family in the first place. That family has led John along on a happy little trip down wish fulfillment lane, encouraging him to hope that Sherlock felt the same as he, that John's happily ever after was within reach if he'd just give up _one last secret_.

"John! John, stop! Please stop—it's freezing out here and you have no coat!"

Sherlock's voice. John stops, turns around, and watches the figure approach. A blanket of calm abruptly descends over him. This is what it feels like to be battle ready, such a familiar feeling for John, one he feels all the time around Sherlock. It's just that normally it's not Sherlock he's expecting to do battle with.

Sherlock stops several feet away and holds something out to John. His coat, he sees. He snatches it out of Sherlock's hands, puts it on, and steps back again.

"What happened with Mycroft?" Sherlock asks.

"With _Mycroft_?" John splutters with a disbelieving laugh. "At least Mycroft doesn't pretend to care about me, Sherlock, so his secretiveness is mostly just annoying. _You_ , on the other hand—" John stops, realizing he's steering himself into dangerous territory.

"I don't understand. You seemed happy here at first and then—and then you weren't. What's going on? What have they told you?" Sherlock asks plaintively.

John can picture so clearly the look of hurt confusion on Sherlock's face. All he has right now is a vague outline in the black night, but that's good. That's good, because he doesn't want to try to read Sherlock's face, knowing it's futile.

"You have kept every facet of your life a secret from me since the day we met but have never respected my right to privacy. You can't even stand near me without looking over my shoulder. Do you know what that's like, always being laid bare like that? Not even my porn preferences are sacred to you!"

"I—I'm sorry," Sherlock says, taking a step closer, but John steps back.

"What am I to you, Sherlock?" he asks in a low, furious voice. "Why did you tell your mother you shouldn't have brought me here? Is it because you didn't want me getting _ideas_ about what I meant to you? Because you didn't want me to think I was anything more than just a flatmate and convenient errand boy?"

"Of course not, John!" Sherlock says, that beseeching note ratcheting his voice up higher than its usual bass. "You're my friend, my _best_ friend, and the things you're saying—none of that is true! I swear to you!"

John ignores him, _must_ ignore him, because he can't allow himself to forget what drove him out here in the first place.

"You didn't even have the decency to warn me that _Anthea_ was actually called _Evelyn_ and happened to be married to Mycroft! You know that I tried chatting her up, I remember, because you had a right jolly laugh over it."

"I would've told you, but you've been avoiding me since yesterday morning after you talked to Sherrinford!" Sherlock shouts, the note of appeal gone from his voice. "If you want to know why I told my mother it was a mistake to bring you here, _that's_ why! Whatever my family are telling you, it's driving you away from me, and I need to fix it, but I _can't_ fix it if you won't _talk_ to me!"

"I won't _talk_ to you," John yells, rage making his ears ring. "Because it's never a _conversation_ , you bloody sanctimonious secretive bastard! A conversation between _friends_ involves a give and take, a two way street. Well, I _give_ and you _take_ , but there's no fairness in our relationship, no balance! I'm tired of you stripping me raw, and then playing the wounded, poor little socially clueless victim when I get upset!"

Silence. John snorts a humorless laugh at the lack of response from Sherlock because that's one of his tactics—the quiet kicked puppy. Usually, this is when John feels guilty for hurting Sherlock's feelings, and he hates Sherlock—well and truly _hates_ him for the first time ever—for the fact that John _does_ feel a little guilty, even now.

"John, please," Sherlock begs. "Let's just go back inside and, and we'll talk. I'm sure I can explain whatever you're angry about."

The words are quietly spoken, but the chill air carries it so well that Sherlock may as well have stood right next to him, lips only inches from his ear.

"No," John says harshly, horrified to hear his voice crack on the word. Despite now wearing his coat, a chill bone deep has invaded John, and he begins to shiver. "No, I can't, Sherlock."

"Let me explain, please," Sherlock murmurs mournfully, crossing the few feet between them before John can react. John tries to take a step back, but Sherlock gets a hand around the back of John's neck and pulls him in. John has less than a second to think _my God, he's going to kiss me_ before Sherlock does exactly that.

John lets him, God help him. He lets Sherlock kiss him while he memorizes as much as he can during the precious few seconds it lasts, then he's shoving Sherlock back. Sherlock stumbles, then rights himself and tries to reach for John again, but John darts out of his way.

"I've seen you be cruel," John says to Sherlock and squeezes hot tears from his eyes before opening them up wide, blinking. "But that is the cruelest thing you could ever do to me."

"How is that cruel? I thought that's what you—wait!"

Already walking away, John gasps a breath, just enough to speak his next words. "I'm leaving." Then he's running again, only this time towards the house, praying the Holmeses are too involved in their Christmas Eve festivities to notice John flee. John's plan is to pack his bag and run without notice, without explanation, all the way back to London where he hopefully has at least Christmas Day to be alone and plan where to go from here.


	5. Tuesday, Christmas Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally talk like grown-ups. (Sorta).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the first day of Christmas, my beta gave to me...a comma splice fix on page 3. On the second day of Christmas, my beta gave to me...two Brit-picks and a comma splice fix on page 3...
> 
> Okay, okay, I'll stop with the little ditty. I just wanted to introduce my beta team and give them all the thanks they deserve. Jenn, Katie and Tia are the most awesome of betas. They're amazing women and amazing friends. I will never stop being grateful to them for the ways they've helped me become a better, more organized writer.

* * *

On Christmas Day, John wakes shortly after six in the morning, exhausted and gritty-eyed, without a clear memory of going to bed. It takes less than a second, though, for him to recall with painful clarity the fight between he and Sherlock.

So, it is with considerable embarrassment that he ponders his next move. Last night, he'd run back to the house and straight up the stairs without speaking to anyone. It had been early still, barely after eight, but he couldn't force himself to face anyone. Sherlock had tried, certainly. He'd asked if John was leaving. John's response, after a long moment, was _no_ , by which he'd meant _no, I'm not leaving your parents' house on Christmas Eve in the middle of the night because it's totally rude, plus I doubt I could find any transportation_.

He could pack his bag and leave now, sneak out while everyone else is still asleep, but he won't. He might be a coward when it comes to opening up his heart, but he would never show that kind of disrespect to Will and Violet.

He sneaks out to the sitting room and the hidden console kitchenette to make a cup of tea, and then runs back to his room and locks his door again. _This is ridiculous,_ he tells himself. _You are a grown man. Take a shower, get dressed, knock on Sherlock's door and_ deal _with this shit._

He showers, dresses, shaves, brushes his teeth. For the previous two mornings, someone has come to wake him at seven, and the closer it gets to that time, the more his heart races and his palms sweat and his thoughts spin. Dread makes him nauseated.

But seven comes and goes without a knock on his door. His foreboding increases. At 7:15, the summons finally comes. For a moment, he's flooded with relief. Then his heart breaks into a tap dance on top of his diaphragm and he can't breathe.

"John? It's Sherrinford. Come out to the sitting room and talk to me. I'm not taking no for an answer. I'll be waiting."

John squares his shoulders. Sherrinford is both the most approachable Holmes and also, somehow, the most terrifying. He slinks his way into the sitting room, but before he can sit down she says, "I've made you a cup of tea," and points at the Keurig in the kitchenette. "You'll have to fix it the way you like it."

"Ta," John mumbles automatically and goes to stand in front of the Keurig while it finishes with a gurgle. He pulls the milk out of the mini-fridge and splashes some in the cup.

Sitting down finally, he forces himself to meet Sherrinford's gaze. She's angry, not surprising, and the gimlet eye she pierces him with lays his cowardice bare. Shame froths nauseatingly in his gut.

"I talked to Sherlock," she says, then takes a sip of her tea.

"What did he say?" he asks carefully.

"Only that he'd fucked it all up between you two, which is bullshit of course. He's sitting on a bench in the orchard looking like a child who woke up on Christmas Day to find that everyone received presents except him. Actually, he looks like Santa came and took a big, steaming shit right at his feet."

"Ugh," John says, flinching at the image.

"Yes. He's quite miserable, my baby brother. Heartbroken, in fact. So, I thought I'd come up here and ask how you plan to fix that."

That gets John's defenses up. "Why do _I_ have to be the one to fix this?"

Leaning forward, she puts her elbows on her knees and fixes him with that shrewd gaze. "Didn't it strike you as odd that the whole time you've been here, we've gone to _you_ , a stranger, in an attempt to get you two together instead of going to our brother?"

John gives her a look that says _obviously_.

"The reason we went to you was because we'd already _tried_ to get Sherlock to make the first move, but he said there was no point. Despite appearances to the contrary, he was adamant that you were straight because _you_ were adamant you were straight. We all know that's a lie, don't we? Except poor Sherlock, of course, who stopped trusting his observations of you after hearing you say _I'm not gay_ about a hundred times.

" _That_ is why you must fix this. If you don't, the two of you will lose the very thing you've been worried about losing this whole time—your friendship."

John stares unseeingly at his own cup of tea, which he's clutching like a life preserver in both hands. He squeezes his eyes shut. To Sherrinford's credit, she says nothing. Then, John leans forward and carefully sets his cup of tea on the coffee table. "You're right," he whispers, slumping against the back of the couch, a long breath of almost-relief escaping him. "Goddammit, you're right. I'm just—" John stops, feeling excuses piling up behind his lips.

"What? You're just what?"

"I'm just—the whole idea is nerve-wracking, all right? And why does he have to be so bloody secretive?"

"Here's an idea— _ask_ him," she says flatly.

"I _have_ dammit! He just gets even more secretive!"

She lifts her eyes heavenward. "For God's sake, John, you work with a detective, so this should be an easy exercise for you. Think about it—what reasons do people have for keeping secrets?"

John rolls his eyes, but goes with it, seeing the worth in what she's saying. "Because they did something wrong, or something illegal and don't want to be caught."

"Keep going," she says, making a circling motion with her finger. "What are some more mundane reasons people keep secrets? Those of us who don't commit murder."

John throws up his hands. "I don't know! Because they did a bunch of stupid shit when they were drunk and don't want their friends to know what an idiot—" He stops as realization dawns.

Sherrinford smiles indulgently and reaches over to pat him on the knee. "I can see you're catching on. So, can I send poor Sherlock up so you two can have a conversation like grownups?"

"Yeah," John says absently, his mind busy with new discoveries and a potential way to resolve this whole mess. "Wait, no—give me about ten minutes."

Sherrinford nods and, without another word, gets up and walks out, leaving the outer doors open just a crack. John stands up and begins to pace.

Almost ten minutes exactly go by before Sherlock opens the door. The movement catches John's eyes and he jerks his head in that direction. "Hey," he says, his genuine happiness to see Sherlock infusing his voice. "Come in and sit. We need to talk."

Sherlock swallows visibly and sits on the edge of the chair nearest the door. Clearly, John's not the only one fighting the urge to flee.

"So, I, uh—I think maybe the best way to do this is for us to take turns asking questions. You should go first," John says, rubbing his sweaty hands on his trouser legs. "And I'm sorry for last night, for not giving you the chance to talk to me. All right—go ahead and ask your question."

Sherlock nods solemnly then sits back in his chair and squares his shoulders. "Do you want a romantic and sexual relationship with me?" he asks with his characteristic bluntness. Nothing on his face suggests he has an emotional investment either way. In fact, his features are almost stern.

John clears his throat and lets out a harsh breath. "Yeah, that's, that's—yeah." John nods his head. "Yes, I do. I do want that."

Sherlock's eyes widen almost imperceptibly and he seems to relax a fraction. "The night we met, were you—"

"Uhn-uh," John says, wagging a scolding finger. "It's my turn."

Sherlock gives him a flat glare then lifts his eyebrows, waiting.

"Why didn't you want me to meet your family?"

Sherlock looks down at his clasped hands. "Because I knew they'd do exactly what they've done—try to push us together—and I was afraid it would drive you away for good." Sherlock looks up at him, the barest tremble to his body. "And it almost did, didn't it?"

John grimaces, remorse running through him in acknowledgement of that fact. "It wasn't them. I was already afraid—afraid you'd make fun of me for what I felt—that it would be awkward between us and eventually drive us apart." John's words, at first halting, now come in a great rush. "Because that worries the bloody fuck out of me, I have to say. I'm terrified of losing you and, because of that, like a great bloody idiot, I shut down. Any armchair psychologist could tell you I was trying to leave you before you left me. You're brilliant and gorgeous and fit and talented, and, and—you have this wonderful, incredible—just this warm and open family who love you and want to help you and are willing to humiliate you—and me—because they want you to be happy. So you don't really need someone like me, someone who's just—" John's words dry up. He stares down at his hands and realizes he's shaking.

"I need you," Sherlock says, voice low and rough with emotion. "Just because I have a family who loves me doesn't exclude my need for you. I value you highly, John—I value you above all others, to put a finer point on it. I'm honored to be called your friend."

Despite the warmth of his words, Sherlock's face remains rigid, and John's hope for a quick resolution seems more remote.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John says after an uncomfortable moment.

Sherlock nods and attempts to smile, but it falters. He wastes no time moving on. "Next question. If we were to become romantically involved," Sherlock says. "To what degree would you be willing to show that relationship in public?"

John frowns, and says slowly, "Do you mean, like—"

"I _mean_ ," Sherlock says, cutting him off. "I don't wish to be with someone who's ashamed to be with me."

Until this moment, John was beginning to think that Sherlock was acting so hard because he was punishing John or because he was resentful. Now he sees Sherlock was girding himself against disappointment.

John shakes his head vigorously, "No, no—Sherlock, I would _never_ be ashamed to be your, uh—boyfriend? or—lover, maybe? Whatever you want to call it, I would be proud just like I'm proud to be your friend."

Sherlock nods sharply once and lets out a gusty sigh. John knows exactly what he's going to ask now that it's his turn.

"Why did you and Victor break up?"

Blood drains from Sherlock's already pale face. Eyes wide, he lets out a harsh breath and rubs his hands over his face. "That," he rasps. "Is a very big question. I think it's worth at least, hm—" He tilts his head, looking thoughtfully at John. "—three more questions."

"Two," John says immediately.

"Agreed. Have you ever had a proper relationship with a man?"

John sighs and shakes his head. "No. When I said I wasn't gay, it wasn't exactly a lie—obviously I like women too—but I haven't really met many men I'm interested in. At least, not interested in a relationship with them. Men are easy when it comes to sex, but I guess—well, I just always pictured myself married to a woman."

"Fair enough. My second question—have you ever been the receptive partner in anal sex?"

John's breath catches in his throat and his heart stops before lunging into a battering fist. "Uh," he mumbles, face burning. "Wow, that's—you really—wow. Getting down to brass tacks, eh?" John laughs nervously and pushes a hand through his hair. Right now he's picturing being the receptive partner in anal sex with _Sherlock_ and the thought of Sherlock's cock pushing into him makes his head swim. He avoids Sherlock's eyes. "I've never—not, not a—just fingers. Only—yeah, that. Fingers."

"Your own or someone else's?" Sherlock asks, his pale cheeks suddenly blooming with color.

"Some—" John starts to say and then glares at Sherlock. "You said you'd explain why you and Victor broke up if I answered two extra questions, so I did. Technically, I've answered _three_ questions in a row."

The silence goes on so long that John wonders if Sherlock's waiting for a prompt from him. Eventually, though, Sherlock sits back in his chair and breathes, and answers John's question.

"I met Victor when we started secondary school at age eleven and we became best friends. We kissed for the first time when we were thirteen and it progressed from there. We were barely fourteen when we had sex for the first time, and then we _kept_ having sex. I was in love with Victor and had been since the moment I met him. I remember writing a poem about his hair—his hair was blonde and bright and silky to the touch."

John shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with the wistfulness in Sherlock's voice. Sherlock stares at the coffee table, not avoiding John's eyes—at least not obviously—but John still feels distanced from Sherlock despite the intimacy he expected to feel when Sherlock agreed to talk about this.

"Then, halfway through our sixteenth year, Victor and I were sitting on a rise in the school yard, watching a group of girls and he asked me what I thought of a girl called _Penny_." Sherlock makes a moue of disgust at the name. "You know, it never even occurred to me that there might be a time when we weren't together. He was supposed to be mine for the rest of our lives." Sherlock clasps his hands tightly and lets out a heavy sigh. "He destroyed me that day. He broke my heart, but not just that—I had never asked Victor to verify that we were together, like, like— _boyfriends_ —because I trusted completely in my skills of observation and deduction. All the evidence that my observations yielded led to the conclusion that Victor and I were lovers—not just sexual partners or best friends who have sex, but _together_ in a genuine romantic relationship.

"But I think I knew, deep down, that I was Victor's dirty little secret and that if word ever got out that we were fucking each other, Victor would—" Sherlock's eyes fall closed and he shakes his head minutely. "Victor would leave me."

Sherlock doesn't speak for a long moment and John, on the edge of his seat, asks, "So what happened then? Did he leave you?"

Sherlock raises his eyes and looks straight into John's and John flinches when he hears what Sherlock says next. "He told me he _wasn't gay_ and that what he and I had been doing was just _fooling around_ and didn't mean anything." Again, silence. John watches Sherlock and waits, throat pinching in sympathy. Sherlock sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. "The sad truth is that it still hurts. Nearly two decades later, I can still remember exactly what it felt like _here_ —" he presses his fist against his sternum, "—when the boy I loved told me that my love was foolish. And he was right—I _was_ a fool. And because he made a fool out of me, I told him Penny was an ugly cow with spots, that I hoped she broke his heart, and that I never wanted to speak to him again."

Sherlock rubs his hands together and then takes a fortifying breath. "I didn't want to ever go through that again, to be so, so _blinded_ by emotion that I arranged the evidence to suit my theory rather than the other way around. That's why even though it _appeared_ as though you felt for me as I do for you, I couldn't trust the so-called evidence. With Victor, the skills that make it possible for me to solve unsolvable crimes failed me utterly.

"It was a long time before I was okay again. I did some drugs, fucked a lot of men—don't worry, I'm clean—of both drugs and STIs. It's been well over a year since I've had sex. Quite frankly, I've not wanted anyone else since I met you."

Delighted by this confession, John looks up, his whole body flushed. Sherlock's smiling at him. It's a sly smile and John can't help but smile back at the mischievous look in Sherlock's eyes.

"Which brings me to my next question. To clarify my intent, I'm enquiring along this line of information because I very badly want to have sex with you," Sherlock says, trying to fight a smile. "In fact, there's a section in your wing of my mind palace that has a year's worth of libidinous acts I want to perpetrate upon your person. I believe the slang term for it is _wank bank_."

John breaks into joyful laughter and watches Sherlock give into the urge to grin and then he, too, starts to laugh. There's a pause, then John gestures with his hand. "Okay, what was your next question, then? The one you wanted to ask because—what was the reason?"

"My desperate need to fuck you," Sherlock rumbles.

John's body was already flushed but now all the blood reddening his skin makes him so hot he begins to perspire. He gulps, then mumbles, "Yeah, that was—right. Go ahead, then?"

"Were they your fingers or someone else's?"

"Someone else's," John says faintly.

"How many?"

"Fingers? Or, uh—or how many, um, men have had their fingers, you know, um—"

"Up your arse?"

John strangles a quiet tight sound almost like a whimper that wants to escape his throat. Sherlock, of course, notices it, and his eyes begin to gleam dangerously. John asks, "What, um, what was the question again?"

"How many fingers? Although, I'm curious to know how many men have had their fingers in your arse as well."

John rallies and composes himself. "No, wait, I already answered your question. It's my turn to ask something."

"Oh, for God's sake, John, I think we can dispense with taking turns."

"You're only saying that because it's my turn!"

Sherlock glares at John, but relents. "Very well. What is your question?"

"Have _you_ ever been the receptive partner in anal sex?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, his gaze intense. "Now, tell me how many fingers."

"Wait, that's it? Just _yes_?"

"You asked a yes or no question, John, and I answered it. Now it's your turn to answer me. How many fingers?" Sherlock asks and gives John an expectant look.

John cocks an eyebrow and smirks. "All of them."

This time Sherlock can't hide his reaction. His eyes widen and his lips part. His chest expands with a huge breath and he struggles momentarily to speak. John smiles wickedly, feeling as though he's scored a major point in their game of Q & A.

"All—all of, uh—all _five_? Just, just the fingers or…?" Sherlock stutters.

"The whole," John says slowly, letting his tongue and lips stroke the words. " _Fist_."

Sherlock's hands cover his mouth shakily, his eyes wide and darkening. He swallows noisily and then he puts out his hand. "Come here," he commands, his voice a purr that shivers along John's bones.

Just like in his dream Friday night, John is helpless to stop himself from obeying. And, just like the dream, Sherlock grips John's hips and deftly plucks him off the floor so that John lands, splayed, in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock spreads his own legs wide, forcing John's thighs apart even further so that he feels exposed, _seen_.

"I'm going to fuck you," Sherlock says, the softness of his voice a contrast to the harshly commanding vulgarity. His face seems to crumple on itself as though he might cry, and John raises a hand to his shoulder in comfort. "I want you _so much_ , John," Sherlock whispers and then cups the back of John's head and brings their faces close.

When Sherlock's lips meet his, John lets himself go placid and loose, giving full control of the kiss to Sherlock.

With women, he always has to take the lead—they _expect_ him to be the assertive one, the aggressor. John likes men for the fact that someone else can be the pursuer, the predator while John can be the prey. It's a rush to be wanted enough to be chased, coaxed, _seduced_. So, yes, he takes a much more passive role when he's with a man.

The man he's with now is the ultimate predator and the fact that a man like Sherlock—a man with all the attributes John listed only half an hour ago—a man so beautiful and so brilliant—knowing Sherlock wants _John_ enough to chase after him builds up his ego and drums up his libido.

Sherlock's lips cup John's top lip, letting the delicate skin catch and pull as he moves his head so that he can do the same to John's bottom lip. John's hands rest lightly on Sherlock's chest, just below his shoulders. When Sherlock's tongue peeks out of his mouth and starts to take little licking tastes of John's mouth, John's fingers dig into Sherlock's shoulders. Then Sherlock presses his open mouth against John's, tongue pushing into John's mouth, kissing him in earnest. His arms wrap around John and draw him closer, tighter, pressing them chest to chest. John rises up slightly on his knees to meet him and finds himself rubbing his hardening cock against Sherlock's belly. His hands slide into that mess of inky-auburn curls, gripping and pulling and plowing furrows through it. Sounds begin pouring out of John and Sherlock swallows them—gasps and moans and throaty, achy whimpers.

Then they're going at it, snogging properly, beginning to thrust against each other. John can feel Sherlock's growing erection against his arse, and John sets a rhythm with his body, first lifting himself to grind his erection against Sherlock's stomach, then lowering himself and writhing on top of Sherlock's lap, groaning at how quickly Sherlock's own erection is growing.

Sherlock lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and all restraint flees. John always pictured Sherlock as being sexually aggressive and all those imaginings—the fantasies that fill his own wank bank—they shudder apart under the onslaught of reality.

Sherlock has enfolded John into him like a carnivorous flower whose petals close once they've captured their meal, locking it in. John missed the point where Sherlock went from pursuing him to capturing him. Sherlock's arms cross over John's back and his hands hold John's head right where he wants it. John's legs are split apart by Sherlock's knees so that even if he escaped Sherlock's arms, he'd still be trapped by the position they're in.

_This_ , John thinks, but can't finish his thought because Sherlock is grunting and pumping his hips up as John pushes himself down. They're dry humping like ruddy teenagers and John thinks _this_ and Sherlock lets out a groan so deep and dark and rumbling that John's bones heat like iron in a forge. They melt, drip dripping thickly inside his body so that he begins to pant and gasp for breath. He's too hot, he's on fire, he's going to die, scorched clean by Sherlock's body.

"Oh, God," John forces out on his next heaving breath. "C'mon, let's go to the bedroom. You promised to fuck me."

"Yes," Sherlock growls, then he shakes his head like a beast clearing away gnats. "No—we can't. Mum says. Breakfast. And it's—Christmas. Gifts. And stuff."

The fact that Sherlock has been reduced to only the fundamentals of language by their smoking hot snogging session makes a giggle bubble up in John. It turns into a laugh and that causes Sherlock to frown at him, clearly offended, which just ratchets John's amusement up and up until his face is pressed against Sherlock's shoulder as he's wracked with sudden emotion—joy, love, forgiveness, passion.

"Ah, ah, ah," he gasps against Sherlock, unsure whether he's still laughing or maybe crying or both at the same time.

Sherlock murmurs things John can't identify as words, his large hands smoothing up and down John's back, soothing John's fevered body, cooling his overwrought mind.

"I love you, I love you," John breathes out, whispering the words into the skin at the side of Sherlock's neck.

A pleased hum of agreement from Sherlock that starts in his lungs tickles along John's chest and taps at his nose where it rests against Sherlock's larynx. Then Sherlock says, roughly and with force, "Good. _Good_ , because I want you to be mine. I need you to, to—say it. Say you're mine."

"I am," John murmurs solemnly.

"Say you'll _always_ be mine." Sherlock's eyes are dark and dangerous, but also unguarded and pleading.

"Yes. Always."

"I know you can't really—I know promises are unrealistic. The future is unknown, but if anybody tries to take you away from me—please, promise me you won't let them."

John can feel the tremor that goes through Sherlock's body. He lifts his head and presses his forehead against Sherlock's. "Sherlock, sweetheart, I promise. I promise I'm yours for as long as you'll have me."

"Okay. Okay, that's…" Sherlock says to himself. "Yes, that's right. Good."

John strokes his cheekbones and matches the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. "Yours," he promises again, voice gentle. "Always."

~*~

"There they are!" says Violet when Sherlock and John have finally cooled their ardor and are attempting, and failing, to make a less obvious entrance in the dining room. John glances at Sherlock, gratified to see that Sherlock is blushing as vividly as he himself is.

Everyone is seated around the table—both parents, Sherrinford, the twins, Mycroft and Evelyn. To further John and Sherlock's embarrassment, they all stand up and break into applause. Evelyn gives a wolf whistle.

Sherlock growls, "John and I can turn around and walk back out if you're going to behave in such juvenile fashion."

"He calls _us_ juvenile?" Eurus asks the table in general then turns to face John and Sherlock, "When you two are as emotionally stunted  as twelve year old boys?"

_Yep. She nailed it_ , John thinks, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head in concession. He thought the same thing himself earlier.

"Okay, okay, we've had our fun," Will says, making sitting motions with both hands. "Let them be, now, let them be."

"Sit down, boys, and let's eat breakfast. Then we're opening gifts!" Violet declares.

Breakfast is in the dining room since it has the only table big enough to seat all nine of them. John and Sherlock are at the end, across from each other. Going around the table clockwise, starting with Sherlock are: Sherrinford, Violet, Will, then Charysa at the head, Eurus, Evelyn, Mycroft and John.

Mycroft asks Sherlock, "I take it you two kissed and made up?" with a smarmy smile.

"Fuck off," Sherlock snaps.

"Sherlock, watch your language at the dinner table," says Will in a moderately chiding tone.

"Technically it's the breakfast table right now," Sherlock says in that pettish voice John suspects hasn't changed much in the last twenty years.

"Watch your language at the _breakfast_ table, then," Will says mildly and grins across at John with an affectionate dip of his head towards his son as though to say, _that boy would drive you mad if you let him._

"I do believe I warned you about the family Christmas dinners," Mycroft says to John with one perfectly arched eyebrow.

"You did," John says. "But the reality doesn't measure up to your ominous warning."

"How so?" Sherrinford asks, biting into her scone without the whole thing crumbling in her mouth and falling all over her plate, which is usually what happens to John.

"I expected animosity, broken crockery, and small European countries being invaded in a fit of pique."

Sherrinford and Will laugh, Sherlock snorts, and Charysa raises her voice and asks, "What's so funny? Why are you guys laughing?"

The story gets passed down to those at the other end of the table and they laugh, too, loud and jolly. John smiles, pleased, and breakfast passes without any of the dread that's been plaguing him since he was cornered by Eurus and Charysa on Saturday morning.

Instead, John's plagued with the ache to have his hands on Sherlock's body. One kiss, however bone-melting, can never be enough now that he's had a taste. Every time he looks at Sherlock, John feels a pulse of warmth that starts right in the middle of his body and spreads from chest and gut to groin, limbs, fingertips. Several times they're caught giving each other loaded glances when they don't respond to a question or comment directed at them. This results in the rest of the party sharing knowing looks with each other.

John offers to carry the breakfast dishes to the kitchen and do the washing up. Sherlock jumps up to help, but when they get to the kitchen, it's obvious dishes aren't on his mind. He leans against the worktop and pulls John right up against him and then his lips are on John's in a kiss so scorching hot John's cock goes from flaccid to erect fast enough to disrupt his blood pressure. His fingertips go briefly numb and his ears ring.

Then John hears, "Oh my God, cover your eyes, Charysa! Don't look, seriously, turn around! Go, go, go!" It's Eurus's voice.

John freezes in horror, not even daring to look over his shoulder. He lifts his eyes to Sherlock expecting to see his own mortification mirrored there, but Sherlock is scowling over John's shoulder. Then he says, "They're gone," and his eyes glitter scarily in that way John has always associated with Sherlock plotting something dangerous and highly inadvisable. Then, in the kind of acrobatic movement Sherlock makes look easy (and that John finds _so_ sexy), Sherlock spins them around, puts his hands on John's hips, and hoists him up on the counter.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John mutters. "Stop manhandling me."

"You like me manhandling you," Sherlock purrs, tongue licking over John's throat.

John makes a strangled noise that sounds like _gahrgh_ when he tilts his head all the way back to offer Sherlock more skin to lick and ends up banging his head on the cabinet behind him.

"Knock, knock!" comes Sherrinford's voice from the doorway, purposefully over loud. "I'm not looking in case you're indecent, but Mum says, and I quote, _tell those boys to make themselves presentable and get their arses in here._ "

Sherlock grumbles wordlessly, but calls back over his shoulder, "Tell Mum, and I quote, _we'll be there as soon as our erections go away._ "

John squawks unattractively and smacks Sherlock on the chest while Sherlock gives him a mock-innocent look.

"Do _not_ repeat that to anyone, Sherrinford, especially not your mother."

Sherrinford says, "Yeah, I think I'll just tell her you said you'd be there in five minutes. You might want to stop snogging now since erections only go away if you stop feeding them."

This time John's indignant squawk is aimed at Sherrinford who he can just make out over Sherlock's shoulder. She's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at him as though to say, _What? You expected privacy? In_ this _house?_ They grin at each other. John's too happy that Sherlock standing between his thighs is now a thing they do to be truly upset about the interruptions.

"Right," John says, pushing against Sherlock who's apparently turned into a marble statue during this very brief exchange because John finds him an immovable wall. "C'mon, let me down."

Sherlock groans, "John," drawing John's name out so that it sounds like _Jawwn_. "I don't want to open gifts right now, dammit. I want to do filthy things to you."

"Too bad," John says, making his voice as firm as he can in the face of Sherlock's lecherous eyes as he says _filthy_. "It's family time."

"God," Sherlock drawls— _Gawwd_. "This is terrible timing! Why do we have to do this thing now?"

"Well, it _is_ Christmas," John points out.

"Fine, fine," Sherlock says, not entirely serious in his protestations. "Let's go open gifts. But later, after we've put in the minimum time requirement for _family togetherness_ , I'm taking you upstairs, sucking you off, and then I'm going to fuck you."

John stares at Sherlock, wide-eyed. His erection, which had begun to wilt, starts to plump back up again. When spoken in Sherlock's devastatingly sexy voice, the words _suck you off_ and _fuck you_ are apparently enough to bring John to full hardness.

John clears his throat and his voice comes out in a rasp when he says, "Uh, I didn't need to know that. I mean, it's _good_ to know, yeah—really good—but right now I'm trying to, you know, make myself presentable and—"

"And I've gone and made your _cock_ —" he emphasizes the _K_ sound at each end of the word "—hard because you're picturing me _suck-ing_ it?"

John's nostrils flare as he stares at Sherlock's shrewd and smirking eyes. "Please stop saying naughty words, Sherlock. It's obvious you know how they affect me."

Sherlock does a little shimmy with his shoulders, an unconscious motion of smug delight, that has laughter bubbling up from John's belly and doubling him over. "Oh my God that's the most adorable thing I've ever seen you do!" John shrieks, still laughing.

"Shut up," Sherlock says, glowering. "You'll bring the whole lot of them running in here." His face is stained so red he looks like he might be apoplectic.

" _So_ cute! _So_ fucking cute! I've never seen you do that before!"

"This is what I get for letting my guard down. See? I told you there were things about me that were less than respectable."

"Oh, sweetheart, I've never thought you were respectable. Not even for a minute," John says, wiping tears from his eyes. He hooks his feet around his pettish detective and pulls him in to put a kiss on the knife of one cheekbone. Then he whispers in Sherlock's ear, "I've always suspected you were a savage in bed. I look forward to being proven right."

Sherlock harrumphs but looks slightly mollified. John's laughter has managed to mitigate his state of arousal. As he's hopping off the worktop, though, he remembers the gift meant for Sherlock in his bag upstairs, something he ordered in October and picked up two weeks ago.

"I've got to run upstairs and grab something out of my bag then I'll meet you in there, yeah?"

"Very well," Sherlock says with a sigh, straightening the cuffs of his shirt and smoothing down the front. "Try not to be gone too long or I'll be tempted to follow you up there and fuck you, Christmas and family time be damned."

~*~

They gather around the Christmas tree, Will and Violet sitting on a squashy couch near the tree, Mycroft perched on the coffee table, and everyone else sitting on the floor except for Sherrinford who kneels by the tree and starts dragging presents out, checking the tags, and organizing them, John assumes, according to name.

John hadn't expected to receive any gifts from the Holmeses so he's surprised and deeply pleased when Charysa hands him a large package, rectangular shaped and heavy.

"Wow," he says, flushing pleasantly. "This is—wow, you guys. You didn't have to."

"This is just from me and Sherrinford," Charysa makes it a point to say. "They all got you something else," and waves dismissively at the rest of her family.

John tears into the paper, revealing a picture frame collage with photos of he and Sherlock. Mouth falling open, John stares at each picture, amazed. There are five in total. There's two from crime scenes and in one of them, John and Sherlock are laughing together, their gazes caught on each other.

"Where did you get these?" he asks, raising his head to stare in awe at the beaming faces around him. A thought occurs to him and he whips his head around to look at Mycroft. "You didn't—"

Mycroft gives him a flat glare. "Really, John, even if I _wanted_ to cull still shots of you and my brother from CCTV footage it should be obvious those photos have far superior resolution than what CCTV provides."

"I asked around," Sherrinford says. "Those two are from Lestrade." She points to the two from crime scenes. "These are from Mrs. Hudson." Those two photos are of John and Sherlock in the flat. "And this one I got from Sherlock."

The last picture is a selfie John doesn't even remember taking. Looking closer, he can tell he's sitting at the living room table and Sherlock is peering over his shoulder. John's head is tilted to the side, looking up at Sherlock and Sherlock is looking back.

"I see what you mean now about it being obvious how we felt about each other," John murmurs in an aside to Sherrinford.

She laughs delightedly and gives him a quick squeeze from behind. "Because of this picture, Sherlock made me promise not to give this to you if things between you two hadn't worked out by Christmas."

John takes a deep breath and lets it out in fake disheartenment. "Pretty damning evidence, I'd say."

And then they have another round where each person gets to open a gift, taking turns so everyone can see what the recipient unwraps. Before long, it's John's turn again.

"This is from me and Will," Violet says, handing him a gift basket tied up with cellophane wrap. He doesn't open it at first because he can see what's in there—apples from Will's orchard, four yellow ramekins, and a recipe card for _clafoutis aux pommes_. A Christmas card, the kind meant to hold money, is nestled next to the recipe card.

"It's a cheque for £500," Sherlock leans over to tell him. "That means you're family now."

"Sherlock!" Violet says, going red.

"What?" Sherlock asks his mother, looking puzzled at her censure. He looks at John and then back at his mother.

"You ruined the _surprise_! The note I wrote inside the card was written from my heart, welcoming him to the family, and I wanted _him_ to read it. I didn't want _you_ to just blurt it out!"

"Okay, okay, let's not get worked up," Will says, putting a calming hand on his wife's knee. Then he turns to his son and says, "Sherlock, what your mother's trying to say is that you ruined the surprise and that was important _to her_ , even though that might not seem logical _to you_."

Sherlock's father, John thinks, is an expert at explaining other people's motives to Sherlock. _He's, like, the Sherlock whisperer._ The thought makes John giggle to himself.

"Sorry, Mum," Sherlock says, sounding like a thirteen year old boy, sullen and self-conscious.

Violet sighs and reaches over to ruffle his hair. Sherlock ducks his head, frowning. "It's okay," she says. "I know you're just excited."

"I'm not _excited_ ," Sherlock says, still sounding like an adolescent.

Before Sherlock can plunge into a sulk, John says, "This is incredibly generous, you guys. I—"

"Don't you _dare_ say you can't accept our gift," Violet says and John immediately snaps his mouth shut when he sees the martial gleam in her eye. "What Sherlock told you is true—you're family now. You and my son love each other, which means you belong to our family."

"John, I want you to know that I'm proud to have you in this family," Will says and sits forward, reaching out to lay a calloused hand on John's head. His hands are huge, with the same long fingers Sherlock has.

"Thank you," John says to Will and Violet, so touched by their words that he can't look them in the eyes for fear that he'll begin to bawl.

"You can't spend Christmas money on anything practical," Charysa says, her face dead serious. John looks up and sees everyone else—even Mycroft—nodding their heads in the same solemn, knowing way.

"That's the rule, huh?" John asks, chuckling uneasily.

"That's the rule," Charysa says.

"And you'd better follow it," Violet adds.

"Or Mum will find out and make you do something humiliating as punishment," Eurus says.

"I will not!" Violet cries, making a shooing motion towards Eurus who's cackling.

"Come on, let's move on to the next gift or this is going to take all day," Sherlock says, talking over everyone else. He gives Sherrinford a pointed look using his hands to motion _get it moving_.

"In a hurry, brother dear?" Sherrinford asks, lifting her eyebrows and widening her eyes suggestively.

"Yes, actually, I am," Sherlock says, completely unrepentant of his impatience. "John and I have things to do."

John groans in embarrassment and buries his face in his hands. "Sherlock," he hisses through his fingers. "For fuck's sake!"

"What are you mad about now? It's not like I said _John and I want to go upstairs and have sex_ ," Sherlock says to him, not bothering to whisper.

John's just grateful the gift giving round robin has moved on, meaning he and Sherlock are no longer the center of attention. John takes the opportunity to elbow Sherlock playfully, but Sherlock leans over and says into John's ear, "The next time you elbow me, I'm going to grab your arm and haul you into my lap."

John's mouth falls open with indignance, and then he raises his eyebrows and says, "You'd better not or I'll put my elbow to more constructive use."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock asks, wiggling his eyebrows seductively, like John's flirting with him instead of threatening to take him down.

_Actually, that probably_ is _flirting for Sherlock_ , John thinks.

Restlessness starts to creep into John as the pile of gifts grows smaller. The gift he bought for Sherlock is sitting there, totally exposed, and John has forced himself not to try to snatch it back and hide it behind his back. It's custom made and wasn't cheap, but it's such a sentimental thing and John's so taken with it himself that it'll break his heart if Sherlock dismisses it as silly.

The choice is taken from him when Eurus picks it up, checks the tag, and then says, "Oooh, this is for you, Sherlock, from John," in a suggestive voice.

"Ah!" Sherlock says happily, grabbing the professionally wrapped box. When he tears the paper off, he holds a navy blue box with the name of the company on it— _Maddox Glassblowers, since 1894_ in gilt lettering on the top. Sherlock makes a little sound of happy intrigue and untucks the lid.

Inside is a snowglobe. Sherlock looks at John questioningly and John, smiling shyly, says, "Let the, um—the snow, let the snow settle. But if you look at the little plaque, see here?" he says and points at a small brass plaque on the polished ebony wood base of the snowglobe. "Read what it says."

"Two-two-one-bee Baker Street," Sherlock reads dutifully, his voice turning up in delight when he says _Baker Street_. "Oh, it's us!" Sherlock exclaims and holds it up, probably intending to show it around, but his movement disturbs the fake snow, obscuring the miniature tableau inside. Sherlock frowns. "Oh, that's annoying. You'll have to come here if you want a look because otherwise it's just going to be all snowy."

Everyone crowds around and watches the white flakes settle to reveal what's inside—a tiny view of the fireplace in their flat with two chairs facing each other, and two tiny people sitting in their chairs, having a cup of tea. All the women gasp and _aw_ in enchantment.

"Oh my _God_ ," Charysa squeals. "The tea cups are _so tiny_! They're adorable."

"Look at Sherlock's hair!"

"It's so realistic!"

"You two are so cute!"

"John, this reproduction is incredible. There's even a little tiny hunting knife stabbed into the mantle!" Sherlock says gleefully, sounding almost like one of his sisters. He looks at John then, his eyes brimming with emotion and says softly, "Thank you. I love it." Then he bends forward quickly and kisses John on the lips, pressing just a second before sitting back again.

John's overflowing with joy, feeling as though he's gained so much more than he ever allowed himself in any of his fantasies where he and Sherlock got together. He never expected a family in the bargain, or to be cared about so much by people he's only known a few days, simply by dint of loving Sherlock.

"My gift for you seems boring in comparison," Sherlock says disgruntledly as he carefully tucks the snowglobe back in its padded box and sets it between his crossed legs. "Pass it over," he says to Sherrinford with an imperiously wagging finger.

Sherrinford obligingly hands out a long, flat package and it gets passed to Sherlock who then puts it in John's lap.

"Open it," Sherlock commands, looking serious.

John obeys and finds a laptop box—a Macbook, to be precise. "Is it actually a Macbook?" John asks nervously.

"Hey, you didn't tell him it's from us, too!" Eurus says, her face squinched up indignantly.

Evelyn, clearly teasing, adds, "Yeah!"

Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes. " _Fine_. John, the laptop is from _me_ , but Eurus and Evelyn wrote the program _I_ asked them to make."

"Add my name to the list of givers, then, because _Evelyn_ —" here he gives his wife a narrow-eyed gaze "—spent untold _work_ hours on that project with Eurus."

John, looking around at them uncertainly, opens the box and slides out—yes—a brand new Apple Macbook, the most recent version. "Oh my God," he murmurs to Sherlock, then leans closer and hisses, "These things are like £2900!"

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "Whatever."

"The thing that Evelyn and I made," Eurus says, coming to finagle a spot close to John, trying unsuccessfully to hip check Sherlock out of the way. "Is a dictation program. We wrote it, Evelyn and I."

"A dictation program?" John asks, puzzled.

Eurus's face falls a bit when John fails to react with the amazement and gratitude she was clearly expecting. "Yeah, a dictation program. You know, 'cause you're a doctor? For, like, dictating your patient notes?"

"But _also_ ," Sherlock says, his hand pushing Eurus's head out of the way so he can look at John. "For dictating case notes."

Then Evelyn comes and bends over John from behind, her long hair falling to tickle his cheek. He pushes the curtain of hair out of the way and she murmurs an apology and grabs it up in one hand, but her focus is on the laptop.

"Open it up, John," she says, but before he can do it, she reaches out and tucks a fingertip under the lid, opening the laptop up. The screen comes to life.

Evelyn and Eurus—with Sherlock's occasional input—guide him through the program they wrote. It has state of the art voice recognition and a dictionary of over a million words, with the ability to learn new ones.

"Oh, and I used the voice recognition software to program your computer so that Sherlock can't get past your lock screen. I'll help you set it up later, but basically you pick a phrase and then you tell the computer that it can't unlock the screen for any reason other than _your_ voice saying _that_ phrase. It has to be at least seven words long for exact verification, but, pretty cool, huh?"

"That little trick with the lock screen was their price for writing the program for me," Sherlock says dourly.

"This is _incredible_ , you guys!" John says, feeling his throat pinch and eyes prick with tears. "I don't even know what to say—this is just _brilliant_! Thank you so much. I, I—it's marvelous, I love it. It's perfect."

Eurus and Evelyn hug John and then, because Charysa didn't get a hug from John when he opened _her_ present, she comes over to drape herself over him and kiss his cheek. John, grinning madly, unable to stop even though it feels like his face is about to be stretched beyond endurance, looks at Sherlock who grins back. John grabs the back of Sherlock's head and, to the sound of laughter and another of Evelyn's wolf whistles, he gives Sherlock a proper kiss with tongue and all.

When they pull apart, Sherlock's darkening eyes don't leave John's as he says, "And on that note, John and I are retiring to our bedroom so I can—"

"—alone time," John hurries to say over him. "To, ah, contemplate our—Christmas spirit. Yeah."

Teasing laughter and jeers accompany them as they gather up their gifts and set them aside to be brought upstairs later. Sherlock grabs his snowglobe, but John leaves the laptop so that Eurus won't feel tempted to interrupt them in order to set it up.

When they get upstairs, Sherlock suddenly takes off, pushing past John into the suite. When John walks in, Sherlock has disappeared. Then the sound of Sherlock ransacking John's room reaches him. He hurries that way and then stops in the doorway to find Sherlock throwing things into John's duffle bag.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asks.

"Packing!" Sherlock says, face alight with merriment.

"Packing? Are we leaving?" John asks, thinking how ironic it is that last night he wanted to go and now the thought of going makes him sad, no matter how much he wants Sherlock all to himself.

"No, we're not leaving," Sherlock says, stopping long enough to frown at John. "We promised we'd stay through Boxing Day, remember?"

John nods and says slowly, "Yes, I remember. That's why I want to know why you're packing."

"I'm just moving you into my room. We hardly need _two_ bedrooms!" Sherlock says and grabs John's bag, holding it up with a triumphant grin.

John follows him through the shared bathroom and into the bedroom he's been using, dropping John's bag unceremoniously on the floor next to the wardrobe.

"What about the second bedroom at the flat?" John asks, trying for cheeky so that Sherlock doesn't see through John's insecurity about what their arrangements will be like once they're back home. "Will we still need that one?"

"Don't be silly. Of course we still need the second bedroom at home," Sherlock says absently, looking around the bedroom as though he forgot something. John's heart sinks at Sherlock's dismissal and the knowledge that their sleeping arrangements at home will remain separate.

Then Sherlock's eyes light up like he just now remembered what he was doing, and he turns towards John, stalking in that predatory way that makes John's stomach flip and his skin burn, despite his disappointment.

"I'm turning it into a lab," Sherlock says, then grips John's waist with his hands and pulls John against him so hard a small _oof_ escapes John's lungs. "If that's okay with you."

"What?" John asks, frowning, his mind already getting dazed with lust.

"The second bedroom," Sherlock says impatiently. "I'm turning it into a lab."

"Ohhh," John breathes out. "No, I don't mind." Happiness bubbles through him, making him want to laugh.

"Excellent!" Sherlock says. Then his eyes grow hooded and he purrs, "Now. I've a year's worth of fantasies about you stored in my wank bank and I'd like to see how many we can get through before Christmas dinner." His hand reaches out and cups John's head proprietarily. "At the very least, I'd like to kiss you again."

John tries to say something but the words don't make it past his throat when Sherlock kisses him. John expects the kiss to be passionate or desperate, but it's gentle, almost chaste. Sherlock pulls back and looks at him with such aching tenderness that John feels like he might weep. "My John," Sherlock murmurs. "I want to kiss you a hundred thousand times—a thousand times every day for the rest of our lives. Happy Christmas."

John's lips part on a sigh, utterly defenseless in his love for this man. Before he can return Sherlock's _Happy Christmas_ , Sherlock's mouth is covering his in a kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The seed of this story came to me in the summer of 2017. What if Sherlock had siblings other than Mycroft? What if he was a middle child?
> 
> Sherrinford came to me fully formed--her physical appearance, personality, and character arc within the story were all provided for by the Muse without me having to think about it. The second thing my lovely Muse provided without effort on my part was this bit of dialogue between Sherrinford and John in Chapter 3:
> 
> _"I wonder if that's the burden of all middle children."_  
>  _"What's that, then?" John asks solemnly._  
>  _"To be surrounded by people who love you, and yet feel all alone."_  
> 
> That exchange became the lynchpin for _The Middle Child_. I've had a very long time for this story to marinate in my brain shack so writing it has been easier and taken much less time than other stories I've written. But because it's been sitting with me for so long, I feel a little sad and letdown that it's over now. That's pretty much how I feel when Christmas is over, too!
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. The Holmeses and I wish you a very Happy Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](https://iamlampyao3.tumblr.com/)!


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